Human After All
by Sarahlee
Summary: When Bosco and Ty are partnered up, their normal, run-of-the-mill day takes a deadly turn.
1. Default Chapter

**Human After All **

Author: Sarahlee 

Email: flmodelgirl@hotmail.com

Category: Drama / Angst

Rating: PG-13 for language and graphic violence

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Third Watch - The ultimate bummer.

Spoilers: Selected events and incidents through season two.

Summery: When Ty and Bosco are partnered up, their normal, run-of-the-mill day takes a deadly turn.

A/N: Hey guys, I'm back...! Hope you enjoy my latest brainstorm :) I love to paint a clear mental picture, but let me know if I have gotten carried away in narrative and descriptions! 

To Joey and Stella: You two are the best! Thanks for everything!

* * *

Ty Davis shuffled his feet slightly, relieving a bit of the painful pressure that was building in his extremities. Crouched as low to the ground as his muscled, six-foot-four frame would allow, he tried to ignore the growing sensation of pins and needles as his legs begged for better circulation. The frigid, gusty wind blowing all around him only added to the unpleasantness, ruthlessly drying his eyes and chapping his exposed cheeks until they felt raw. As badly as he wished to move though, his thoughts and eyes stayed focused down the barrel of his standard-issue 9mm Beretta, watching and waiting for just the right moment. 

Beside him, Sullivan was hunkered down in a similar position, one finger of his left hand held up, signaling Ty and the others to wait. Wait. Another few seconds, maybe another few minutes, but it would come. The right moment would come. Sully, a seasoned cop and his overseeing officer, would know when it was time better then he, so he waited, anxiously fingering the trigger on his gun as he tried to ignore the growing discomfort that he was being forced to endure. The gun was becoming increasingly heavy in his hand, the curved steel of the trigger cold and smooth against his index finer, enticing him to squeeze it. 

Adding to the uncomfortable environment, the dark of night did it's best to thwart sight, and Ty's vision was significantly hindered by the encasing blackness. The soft piles of icy snow that lined the ground as a thick carpet, was the bright, contrasting white that replicated what little light the cloud-sheathed moon had to offer. Subtle reflections helped his eyes enough so that he was able to make out the gloomy shadows and silhouettes that were peppered around him, but not sufficiently enough to provide an adequate aim on anything. And so he sat, the seconds ticking by, each long and lonely as the soft hush of anxiousness enveloped the dark alleyway that they now inhabited. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ty saw a movement. A low, dark silhouette moving --or rather, slinking-- forward slowly. For a moment, he let his eye travel away from the barrel of his weapon to satisfy his curiosity. Stealing forward in a crouched duck-walk, the figure moved deftly from the dark shadow that it emerged from and into the opening to the black abyss of the alley. The shadow stopped as soon as it entered the mouth and brought up a gun. 

_Bosco._ The show-off had to be the closest, had to have the best shot. Typical.

Ty sighed and shook his head slightly, then realigned his gun and peered down its sights again, focusing his attention solely on the obscure and gloomy, cavernous hole that lay before him. 

The perp was in there -- a wanted murderer, or so they thought. Sully had spotted him not ten minutes earlier, sipping imperturbably on a cup of coffee and leaning against a bus stop sign, nice as you please, not a care in the world. He should have paid more attention to the RMP that had slowly crept up, trying to get a better view of his face. When the two cops had finally gotten a good look and determined that his mug matched the sketch artist's rendition, Sully had radioed in and the chase was on.

Now, four blocks of hard running later, they had him cornered. The guy had been stupid enough to trap himself in a dead end. Unfortunately, he was considered armed and dangerous, and because of the darkness of the alley, they had no way to see if he was indeed carrying a weapon. To run in after him would have been suicidal. Boscorelli and Yokas had shown up as backup a few minutes ago, and like Ty, now awaited the drop of Sully's raised finger.

A scuffling sound omitted from the alley, and was awarded with a loud shout from Ty's partner, "Don't even think of pulling anything, you hear me? Just come out slowly with your hands up!"

Another scuffle, then complete silence. 

_Wait for it... Wait for it..._ Ty told himself, repositioning his aim an inch or two to the right, where he figured the sounds were deriving from. 

Sully moved slowly, catching Ty's eye as he reached to his gun-belt for his flashlight. The shiny black cylinder would become very useful in just a few seconds.

"Com'on out, you bastard!" Bosco yelled from his spot -- closest to the alley, of course. "It's not like we have you cornered or anything!"

Ty rolled his eyes at this and squinted, ready for the beam of light to be shot down the alley. His senior partner slowly raised the flashlight, pointing it directly into the darkness in question, and began softly counting down under his breath, "Okay... Three...two...one!"

The loud click of the switch was lost amongst the officer's shouts and commands as the alley was illuminated with light. 

"Put it down! Put it down, now!" Sully bellowed at the perp, who stood boldly in the center of the alleyway, his own gun waving around erratically, as if he couldn't decide whom to shoot at first.

A single shot went off, sending off a flash of light as bright as day and a bullet ricocheting loudly off of the cruiser that Ty crouched behind. The resounding clang of metal against metal startled him, and he felt himself inadvertently flinch and stoop down further, forcing his already cramped body into an even tighter hunch. 

"Son-of-a-bitch..." Sully muttered from a few feet away, shifting his bulk for a better shot.

"That's enough, jag-off! Eat this!" Bosco yelled, cocking his own weapon noisily and firing back a round at their opponent. 

His shot was right on, aimed perfectly for the perp's gun. The bullet barely nicked the edge of the weapon, but the angry man lost his grip on the gun and it fell to the frozen ground beside his foot. _Damn-good shot_.

As soon as the perp's gun hit the icy snow, the uproar commenced. A jumble of words flew through the air as all four officers simultaneously screamed for him to drop to his knees and surrender. "Get down!" "On your knees, now!" "Put the gun down!" "Give it up, sucker!"

Wisely, the man chose to comply and slowly lowered himself to the frozen pavement, raising his arms overhead in an unenthusiastic surrender. 

Bosco and Faith promptly raced in to secure him while Sully re-holstered his 9mm and followed. Ty struggled to uncurl his cramped body from the near fetal position that he'd been cowering in for the last few minutes, but his legs were numb from loss of circulation. "Ungh," he groaned when they protested his movement and sent stabbing pain up his calves and thighs.

"You actually thought you could shoot your way out?" Bosco was yelling at the perp as he wrestled him to the ground. "You are such a dumb shit! Seriously, did your mama drop you or somthin'?"

"Alright, Bosco -- enough. Let me have him," Sully growled at the hotheaded cop, dragging the struggling perp away from his grasp at the same time. Bosco tended to overreact and usually felt the need to tell each and every offender just why the hell he had caught their sorry ass. Needless to say, more than one then one arrest had ended up in a fistfight -- with Boscorelli being the aggressor. This time was no exception.

After tightly securing a pair of handcuffs on their arrestee's wrists, Sully grabbed his shoulder CB and called in, "Central, we have the suspect in custody."

"10-4, Charlie."

Smirking with satisfaction, Bosco continued to egg on the perp, pushing at his cuffed arms with his nightstick, and then taunting when the man winced in pain, "That hurt, scumbag? That hurt you?"

"Bosco..." Sully groaned at him, shaking his head at his coworker's brazen misanthropy. "That's enough."

Ty chuckled at the glare that Bosco then shot to his partner. _If looks could kill... _

He struggled to stand again and succeed, but the hasty movement sent tingles of pain radiating up and down his legs. He winced as he straightened fully, the tingling intensifying until it was virtually numbing. 

"You okay, Davis?" asked Faith as she walked up to him, a worried frown on her face. 

"Uh, yeah... My legs fell asleep, I guess," he answered quickly and almost sheepishly, slipping his gun back into its holster. 

Faith smiled amusedly at his hangdog remark and nodded, "Yeah, I know what you mean. Shootouts are a bitch."

"Who's a bitch?" Bosco asked loudly from a few feet away as he continued to make faces at the surly perp, his arms crossed in a defiant 'I'm-the-boss-get-over-it' petulance. 

Faith just smirked at Davis and ignored the question. "You got this one, Sully?" she asked, no doubt eager to get back to the warmth of 55-David. 

Over the last few days, the city's temperature had dropped severely due to a merciless cold front and impending snowstorm that loomed on the western horizon, and in the long hours since the sun had come out that day, the mercury had barely crept past the negative numbers - offering a meager single-digit readout. To say that it was bitter cold outside would be putting it lightly. Ty wasn't looking forward to the evening hours when the temperature would plummet yet again, distributing merciless frigidity into the core of the city. 

Shuffling his feet a bit, Sully wryly took a long look at the perp, and judging from the way the man was gritting his teeth in pain, he consented, "Yeah, go ahead. He won't give us anymore trouble."

Bosco snorted at this, poking their detainee with his nightstick once again. "He'd better not give you any trouble... No, smart-ass here should be a real good boy now, right?"

"Let's go, Bosco..." Faith's tone ordered rather then suggested as she dragging her partner by his arm towards their RMP. "We'll see you guys later."

"Yeah," Sully grunted, uninterested. He'd been in a fowl mood all day and hadn't relinquished the reason to his partner, no matter how much Ty had coaxed. If his reasons for being snappy were anything like Ty's, he was bored, tired, and utterly fed up with the cold winter weather and the seemingly endless supply of foolhardy criminals. 

Ty leaned up against the cruiser, eyeing the passenger seat, knowing just how much warmer it was within the insulating metal frame. The icy wind was picking up and biting into his cheeks like bits of glass, each gust an astringent reminder of how obnoxiously uncomfortable he was. Lovely weather. 

"You have the right to remain silent..." Sully mumbled the scripted Miranda to their arrestee as he pushed the man towards the backseat of the RMP, making sure that his skull rudely connected with the roof. 

Recoiling from the blow, the perp shook his head insolently as he struggled against the handcuffs and Sully's strong arm. "I ain't sayin' nothin' without my lawyer!" he snarled as a perturbed Sully forcefully shoved him into the cruiser for good. 

"Fine, have it your way, _Mr. Doe_. Plead the fifth -- just makes less paperwork for us..." Ty snapped at him, not in the mood to put up with any backtalk. A fighter like this one would only be yet another aggravation in the hassle-ridden days that New York City smugly called average and normal. Great.

* * *

The dead quiet was starting to become annoying. You could have heard a pin drop in the silent RMP, an unusual incidence for the two that drove it daily. On a normal day, most of the downtime was spent in idle chatter, each of the officers trying to pass the hours quickly with jokes and digs, or at least comments about the weather. Today no such exchanges took place, and the silence was reaching its pinnacle point at nearly deafening. 

For the second time that minute, Bosco stole another glance at his partner, intrigued by her lack of words, wondering what could have brought on the uncharacteristic fit of un-inspired silence. "Well...you've been awful quiet today. Somthin' goin' on?"

As if she'd anticipated this question, Faith merely shrugged, not bothering to turn her head. "I don't know. I just don't feel a hundred percent, I guess..."

Bosco shook his head at this, not because he didn't believe her, he just figured there was some underlying problem. 

"Fred?" he guessed -- a good guess considering the problems that Faith and her husband had been through recently. Married life had its ups and downs, and Faith and her husband were defiantly riding through one of the 'down' times. Stories and rantings about the childish behavior of the 'uncouth' Fred had patronized the RMP in the recent weeks with their frequency and --more often then not-- humorous flavor. Bosco found the quiet that now replaced their talks to be bothersome, and now almost wished for a Fred-related story -- at least he'd be entertained. Anything would be better that staring bleakly out the window into the equally bleak night. 

Faith shot him a look a look that could only be read as a firm 'no', her face hardening into an icy frown. He didn't give up though, taking another guess and using the subject as convenient filler. "The kids?"

Again an adverse look, but this time she held it, resolutely glaring her partner right in the eye. "No! It's fine... everything's fine." 

"Um-hmm," Bosco murmured, completely unconvinced and used to her methods. Silence and playing down what was vexing her were top on his list of Faith's most irritating traits, but only because he wanted to help her out. "You could talk about it, you know. Always helps to talk to somebody, get everything off your chest."

"Bosco!" Faith snapped. "Leave it be! I'm fine."

"Alright, alright, I was just tryin' to help...geez," he shook his head again, but this time it was in total annoyance and incredulity. Women had to be the most complex creatures on the planet. Warm, cold, warm, cold -- a guy could never judge just how she would be at any one moment, her countenance changing so rapidly that it could make a head spin. Today was no exception, but Bosco had long-since learned the value of a little thing called 'tact'. Tact in this case would be to just shut up then while he was still ahead -- or frankly, still had a head. 

Once more, silence enveloped them, appeasing Faith, yet annoying her partner further. This time the quiet was worse, uncomfortable almost. 

Giving up finally, Bosco fidgeted in his seat, toying distractedly with the switches and buttons on the dashboard, trying in vain to amuse himself. When he had finished checking gauges, turning knobs, and messing with the portable CB, he moved on to himself, zipping his coat up and rearranging his NYPD skullcap. 

"Dammit, Bosco, can you sit still for one minute?" Faith hissed at him, "You're like a freakin' kid!"

"What?!" Bosco shot right back, his face screwed up in his best 'exasperated' look. "This bother you?" he asked sarcastically, zipping his coat zipper up and down quickly, intentionally trying to get on her nerves. Two could play this game... "Huh?"

"Bosco, I'm warning you - not today. I have a headache and your shenanigans are just makin' it worse! So just cut it out, okay? I mean it."

_Women_. Bosco rolled his eyes and sighed, sinking heavily back into his seat in defeat. 

_God, this is going to be a wicked-long day. _

* * *

Contentment and ease washed over him as Ty leaned his head against the headrest, enjoying the break in-between calls and trips outside into the frigid cold. In an attempt to thaw their near-frozen bones, Sully had set the heater dial to the far right and cranked the fan, blowing warm, dry air into the cab of the RMP, bringing about the immense comfort that his partner was feeling at the moment. If only the rest of the shift could be spent in such a way...

As if Fate had seen his pleasure, the radio rang out, the operator's voice shrill and cackling, "Central to 55-Charlie, respond to a fender-bender at Arthur and 5th."

Fate was laughing.

"Awww, shit..." Ty muttered under his breath, cursing the weather, the day, and the dumb-ass drivers that would force him outside into the sub-zero climate once again. 

Unfortunately, when the sun had set a few hours ago, the dusky darkness had ushered in that wretched front of unwelcome arctic air. The unpleasant cold of earlier that day had nothing on the new frigidity that now enveloped the city, seeping into its core like liquid ice. Forecasters had announced that the drop of temperature was there to stay, at least for another few days, and it was to be one of the coldest weeks in New York's history. 

_Just what we need...a blizzard. Merry Christmas, early, huh? Thanks, Santa - I'll pass, _ Ty thought miserably, affording all of the credit for the inexcusable cold to the jolly fat man. 

Sully glanced over at Ty and shook his head, obviously equally put-out. "Central," he practically groaned into the microphone, "55-Charlie, Arthur and 5th, 10-4."

Ty flicked on the lights, shrewdly choosing to omit the sirens for this call. No need to hurry. "You know what, Sul? It's days like this that makes Florida sound real nice..." he commented glumly, pulling on an extra pair of gloves and repositioning his scarf to fully cover his neck. 

"Yeah," Sully sighed blissfully, "What is it down there right now, like eighty? I swear..."

"Seriously. Why the hell live do I live here?"

"Oh, com'on... why would you want beaches and sun all year when you could have this? Skyscrapers, smog, snow, traffic...the lap of luxury." 

"Tell me about it..." Ty grumbled. Sometimes he really had to sit back and take a minute to remember why he had taken this job in the first place. Was all of the crap he had to put up with really worth it? The daily stress that the job piled onto his shoulder, the deadly situations that he and his coworkers encountered on a daily basis, the gruesome, gory images that he could never quite shake... Was this really what he wanted? 

Then he would remember just why he had signed up. Honor, courage, valor. Before this job he was missing something -- was without. Now he had a sense of pride and accomplishment, no matter how bad the day, week, or month. He was protecting a city. 

Some days, though --like this day-- it was very hard to put things into perspective. 

* * *

"Damn, it's freezing out here!" Bosco cursed, rubbing his gloved hands together in a futile effort to warm them up. This only served to re-ignite the tingling sensation of fingers thawing out of their numb state, and he frowned at the annoying pains. 

"No kidding," Faith remarked wryly. The harsh wind was chapping her cheeks to the point that they felt skinned. Bosco's comments only made it worse, drawing her entire attention to just how intensely uncomfortable she was.

"God, it's gotta be forty below at least... Damn, it's cold!" he exclaimed again as they climbed the stairwell leading to the break-in that they'd been called for. His breath created a thick, white condensation in the icy air, visually indicating the harshness of the minimal temperature. 

Why the hell anyone with a head on their shoulders had even bothered to venture out was beyond him -- then again, burglars weren't the smartest people on the planet, and he had caught more than a few within hours of their latest heist. Usually, he had the energy and ambition to hunt them down, searching the streets for hours, but today he barely had drive enough to force himself to the crime scene. 

"Bosco, I swear, if you say that one more time, I'll smack you!" Faith barked at him, thoroughly irritated at her partner. On a normal day, she could put up with just about everything that he threw at her, but today her head was bothering her and every sound was multiplied a thousand times, ringing and high-pitched. Bosco would just have to shut up.

"Pissy today, aren't we?" he mocked, flashing his infamous smirk to her scowling face.

"Don't push it."

"Right," Bosco nodded sardonically, reaching to push the front door buzzer. "Just don't take it all out on me."

Faith ignored him yet again, pulling the 'I-could-really-care-less' attitude that she copped whenever she was angry, irritated, or frankly, whenever her partner got on her nerves. 

Bosco rolled his eyes and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unconsciously trying to keep himself warm. Whoever called in the robbery was taking their sweet time to buzz them in... 

"Com'on..." he groaned, forcefully pushing the buzzer again. "It's only forty freakin' below out here!"

Finally, the intercom sputtered back static, and then a question from a rather shaky voice, "Who is it?"

"Police..." Bosco shook his head and scowled, obviously exasperated, "You called us, remember?"

The door buzzed and unlocked, and Bosco didn't hesitate a second to open it and slip inside into the somewhat heated lobby. "Whew, not much better in here..." he commented to his fuming partner, who's annoyed looks had turned into sour glares.

Bosco repressed the urge to lash out at her, choosing once again to keep his head intact and on his shoulders. _What the hell is up with her today? _ He sighed and continued on, making his way to the stairwell at the far side of the lobby, shaking his head all the way, completely miffed at her indifference. 

* * *

His gaze indicated the intensity of his concentration, glazed and unfocused eyes adrift in deep musing as they stared unceremoniously out the window. No movement came from his body, relaxed and settled comfortably in the deep seat, and he gave the appearance of someone rapt in contemplation. 

A soft --and seemingly humored-- snort erupted from the opposite side of the small cab, startling the introspective Bobby slightly while quickly pulling him from his entrenched reflection. His eyes refocused on his partner, Kim, who was smirking at him, eyebrows raised and an amused look plastered across her face as she shook her head slowly. 

"What?" Bobby frowned, confused as to what had generated the source of his partner's obvious entertainment. The woman was complex at best, but in truth, he felt that he knew her better then anyone. Months and years of riding alongside someone instilled that sixth sense and knowledge of their innermost character that was surpassed by none. But it was moments like this one that Bobby was once again lost in her mystery. 

"We just got a call, but you seem to have other, more important things on your mind."

"I guess I was lost in thought..." he shrugged as he keyed the engine, forcing himself to prepare for the next hour or so of drudgery that would no doubt ensue.

As if on cue, his honest reply was rewarded by another snort by his permanently tongue-in-cheek counterpart. 

"Unfamiliar territory, huh?" Kim quipped sarcastically as she buckled her seatbelt, not even bothering to suppress her mirthful laughter.

* * *

Faith followed Bosco as he trotted up the stairwell, her head aching and pounding relentlessly. Their footsteps were echoing loudly around, irritating her headache further and grating on her nerves like nails-on-chalkboard. All of Bosco's chattering and mindless prattle was just as irritating, and she felt like strangling him every time he opened his mouth.

_Why the hell do I feel so horrible today? _she mentally groaned, struggling to ignore the searing headache that ripped through her head as blistering hot-pokers. To top it off, her stomach wickedly decided to join in the fun, sending wave after wave of thick nausea coursing around her midriff. 

In the immense discomfort that plagued her weary body, all she knew was that 'home' and 'bed' were the most delicious sounding words that she could think of, and the hours left in her shift were dragging slower than a drunken snail. 

Still his obnoxiously keyed-up self, Bosco reached the top of the stairway made his way around the corner while Faith slowly plodded up the last flight of steps, having to force her leaden, tired legs to go. 

_The flu..._ Maybe she had the flu. Charlie had come down with some bug last week, and knowing her and her finicky immune system, she would catch it. _Oh this is so great.. _

"Faith?" Bosco, called out from the hall up ahead, his tone taking on one of an impatient nature. "Hurry up."

_Shut the hell up, _ Faith inwardly moaned, wishing she could somehow make this quickly deteriorating day end. _Just shut the hell up_.

* * *

Ty shook the ballpoint pen vigorously, trying a new method to get the obstinate thing to release it's ink so that he could continue to fill out the report. The pen had other plans, though, and refused to write. He scribbled little circles across the bottom of the page, hoping the stimulation would help. Of course, it didn't. "Dammit," he cursed softly to himself. 

"You almost finished?" Sully asked from behind him, his voice loud and gruff. No doubt, he was as irritated at the weather and eager to return to the RMP as Ty was. 

"Uh, yeah," Ty answered distractedly, shaking the pen once again. "I think the ink froze in this thing..."

Sully let out a cynical chuckle, "Wouldn't doubt it, not in this weather anyway..." He fished around in his jacket and handed Ty another pen from the inside pocket. "Here." 

They had arrived on the 'scene' about ten minutes before to find exactly what the dispatcher had described: a fender-bender. A flashy sports car had misjudged the distance to the stoplight and skidded across the icy street into a beat-up old Pontiac. No big deal -- they'd seen this type of accident a thousand times, right? No, of course there had to be a dispute about who was responsible for the smashed bumpers, the two men fighting and arguing loudly amongst themselves, and then with the two officers. 

"Thanks," Ty mumbled, scratching out the final lines of the ticket hurriedly, not caring that in his haste, his handwriting was nearly illegible. It was all he could do to not throw the ticket book down and call it a day. Mess after mess of stupidity and moronic behavior had inundated his day, and now a seriously displeased driver was glaring angrily at him as though he were the Antichrist. 

He ripped the yellow sheet of paper out from underneath his own pink copy, and handed it to the disgruntled recipient, the middle-aged driver of the flashy sports car and also the man that Ty and Sully had deemed liable in the end. Tempted to be equally as rude, Ty took a deep breath and struggled to remain professional and competent in lieu of the frustration that pushed at his tolerance. "Try and be more careful next time, okay?" he advised smoothly. "This snow is pretty dangerous." 

"No, really?" the man snapped sarcastically, sneering and frowning irately at Ty, as if the young enforcer had caused the problems that had left the fellow so cantankerous. "Thanks so much for the tip, _officer. _"

"Yeah, no problem," Ty shot back quickly, his tone warning, then turned and muttered under his breath, "Idiot."

His frustrated comment wasn't lost though, and he received a knowing smile from his partner. Sully understood. Sometimes people just sucked. 

* * *

Bosco punched the doorbell with the palm of his hand, not bothering to remove his glove to use a finger. Faith had finally made it up the stairs after God-knows-how-long, casually strolling up the last few steps in no apparent rush. She now stood to his left, glaring at the door as if her eyes could drill a hole right through it.

"Who is it?" the same shaky voice asked again, for the second time in just minutes. 

_Dumb-ass..._

"Who the _hell_ do you think it is?" Bosco scoffed. "It's the police, _remember_? You just buzzed us in!"

He rolled his eyes dramatically and shook his head. "Can you believe this guy?" he hissed to his partner, his face a mixture of amused frustration. _This guy is some kind of moron..._

Faith just raised her brow and shrugged her shoulders, her face displaying an edgy aggravation, still obviously pissed at the world or whatever it was that she was upset with. "You know what, Bosco? Today I can..."

* * *

The cruiser lurched as Sully pulled it neatly into the parking space and shoved his foot on the brake; nearly spilling the heatless coffee that sat perched precariously in the cup holder. His gloved hand shifted the stick quickly into 'park' as he simultaneously unbuckled, and then reached for the door handle to leave.

"Whoa, whoa, where's the fire?" Ty asked amusedly, interested in the reason his friend was in such a hurry. This kind of behavior from his lackadaisical, easy-going partner was not a usual occurrence, and only assisted in tremendously stimulating Ty's curiosity. "What's the hurry?"

"Nothing," Sully said, his tone as flat as his bold-faced lie would allow. 

Ty though, could not be fooled, and the statement just instilled his inquisitiveness. "Oh, c'mon, man - you're moving faster than you have in years... You have a big night planned with Tatiana?" he asked, grinning and raising his brow wickedly. 

Sully's recent 'romance' with his neighbor, a mysterious foreign girl, had piqued Ty's interest on more than one occasion, although the somewhat-reclusive Sully rarely relinquished anything of any significance. 

As he'd hoped, his prying remark lit a mischievous gleam in Sully's eye, and Ty received a low growl and a sloppily suppressed smile from his partner. "Wouldn't you like to know..." he mumbled as he exited the car.

Ty quickly followed, eager to continue the conversation, his eyes burning with interest and his infectious grin illuminating his handsome face. "So, you two going out on the town?"

"What? In this weather?" Sully snorted as they wove through the crowded precinct house, dodging fellow officers and criminals alike. "I don't think so..." 

"Ahhh," Ty started knowingly, drawing the word out and winking, "Stayin' at home then, huh?"

"Ty..." Sully sighed exasperatedly at his young partner, rolling his eyes in an obvious display of his annoyance, but his expression smirked with jollity, nevertheless. "Enough, okay?"

"Yeah, whatever, man," Ty waved him off, and still smiling unthinkingly, followed his partner into the near-empty locker room. The strong, spicy smells of aftershave and Icy Hot instantly assaulted his senses in a comforting, but familiar, wave as he snaked around a few of the metal benches to his locker. "It's nice to know you still have your mack on."

"Oh, gross."

Bosco slammed his locker door shut and shook his head in disgust, making his presence loudly known. "As if this day wasn't bad enough, now we have to hear about Sully havin' mack. Wonderful."

"You got a lady friend, Sullivan?" piped Ross as he entered the room shedding his hat and gloves.

"Yeah...Ta-ti-ya-na..." Ty nodded, playfully drawing out each syllable of her exotic-sounding name. 

"Davis..." Sully growled at his partner for initiating the embarrassing conversation, his surly features exhibiting his understandable discomfiture and displeasure. 

Faith, who was quietly getting together her things the whole time, stood and made a slow line for the door. Her shoulders were slouched, eyes dull and void of any emotion. Bosco took note of this and loudly voiced his opinion. "You goin' home, Faith? You should get some rest -- you look like hell."

She turned and gave him a half-hearted glare. "Thanks, Bos. I appreciate it. Really," she said as sarcastically as she could manage, giving her indecorous partner a long, hard look. 

"Ouch, Boscorelli, pull your foot out of your mouth..." Ross chided, shaking his head.

"What? She looks tired! Look at her!"

"Bosco..." Faith warned. "One more word and I'll kick your ass so hard you'll have _my_ foot in your mouth!" she snapped and flounced out of the room, obviously in no mood for the typical nightly banter. 

"See'ya, Faith," Davis called after her as she left. He zipped his heavy winter coat up to his neck and closed his locker, then announced his departure. "I'm outta here - later."

"Yeah...right," Bosco replied distractedly, eager to leave and go home. Half a six-pack of ice-cold beer and a hot shower awaited him - just the ticket for such a boring and tedious day.

* * *

To Be Continued... Angst to come... ;) So, yeah, tell me what you think! Should I continue? I love hearing from you all!


	2. Times Like These

**Human After All**

Times Like These

A/N: Wow! Thank you for the awesome feedback! I'm so glad that you all approve :) This story will eventually become pretty angsty, but I have written this fic more akin to an episode because I wanted to bring back some of the old-school banter and fun that used to be Third Watch. I don't know about you guys, but I miss it a lot! So, bear with me here, and we'll get to the angst in due time... Thanks again for the wonderful reviews!**:)**

* * *

Faith pulled her knees to her chest and held her breath, hoping that the small measures would stave off the nausea that was ripping violently throughout her fevered body. The minor change of position helped ease her discomfort to some extent, but she still felt like she was dying a slow, torturous death. 

A high-pitched squeak of the bedroom door warned her of the impending bright light, and she squeezed her eyes shut to block it out. Bright multicolored spots swam before her, dancing merrily in the semi-darkness that she'd created for herself. 

"Faith...?"

Fred's footsteps were earsplitting against the hardwood floor, sending shooting pain through her skull with every reverberation. The bed shifted as he sat on the edge, his weight rolling her aching body back slightly towards him. She winced and groaned out a long, miserable moan, gritting her teeth against the queasiness that threatened an undesirable trip to the bathroom. 

_God, Fred... Go the hell away..._

"You okay?" he asked rather gruffly, hesitantly tapping her shoulder with a single finger as though he thought that if he actually touched her with a whole hand, he would become instantaneously stricken with the virus.

Another moan omitted from her lips, this time coupled with a weak shake of her head. "Feel like shit..." she breathed, and instantly regretted it as a wave of nausea sent her stomach flying into raw spasms.

The room was silent for a moment as Fred processed this information, and Faith thanked God for the temporary reprieve of sound.

"Okay... I guess I'll feed the kids then." His tone was less than sympathetic, more annoyed than anything, but Faith understood his plight. Fred could barely cook a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to save his life and was probably starving. She almost felt sorry for him, but the inclination to vomit promptly replaced any feelings of commiseration. 

Fred would just have to get over himself and fend for his breakfast.

* * *

The skies were dark, ominous as the looming clouds churned and threatened to spill heaping piles of snow on the already abounding walks and streets. The vicious winds of the day before had nearly dispelled entirely -- the calm before the storm and a clear-cut forewarning of the night's expected whiteout. Leafless trees begged to be free of the icy burden that currently weighed down their boughs, stretching and pulling at the smaller saplings until they nearly broke. Although the impending nor'easter loomed precariously on the horizon, the residents of New York were undeterred in their course of action, going about their business a usual, the streets characteristically full, sidewalks peppered with bundled up people.

Icy, week-old snow crunched under his boots, gritting as the crisp partials compacted under his weight, and his jeans made a faint swishing sound as Bosco made his way hurriedly to the warmth of the precinct house.

Before he entered the aging building, he paused for a moment and glanced up at the sky, squinting and frowning in disgust at the imminent annoyance that would only contribute in what was sure to be yet another lackluster, dreary, pain-in-the-ass day.

_Great. Snow. Just what I need -- traffic jams, fender-benders, and irritated people. Thanks, God. I'll remember this one..._

He sighed, resigning himself to another bad shift, and pushed the front door open with a frustrated heave. 

Being a cop wasn't the easiest of jobs by any means, but contrary to all of his mental carping and grousing, Bosco loved every minute of it. He lived for the sense of urgency and thrived under the dangerous intensity that his job provided. The inconsistencies and variations of each day afforded him an upbeat, on-your-toes work environment that was a strangely comforting solace. 

The House was alive with activity as he stepped in, a stark comparison to the drab and bleak outdoors. The approaching shift change had ushered in half of the force and the bad weather had done its part in leaving the lobby filled with complaining civilians, all bemoaning about one thing or another. 

Ducking his head in an effort to be unnoticed by his superiors, he made a hot trail for the locker room. Halfway there, he unfortunately managed to catch the eye of Sergeant Christopher, who gave him a quick and seemingly disappointed shake of his head, his finger simultaneously pointing at the large clock that took up half of the opposite wall. 

_ "You're late," _ he mouthed to Bosco, a pleased smirk tugging at the corners of his feigned stoicalness. 

Instead of the usual insolent dissing that he would have usually spouted as a follow-up to Christopher's asinine intimations, Bosco simply ignored him and wove through the crowd on his way to the locker room. The sheer attitude exuding from his condescending supervisor was enough to send his jaw clenching angrily, and also unfortunately reminded him of the previous day and the foul mood that his partner had been.

_Faith had better be in a good mood today_, he thought crossly, _ 'cause I'm not about to put up with any more of her bullshit. _

* * *

Ty adjusted his coat color, pulling the lapels down to lie flush with his chest. His reflection in the hazy, cracked locker room mirror gazed back at him, expressionless. In a contemplative disposition, he stood there for a moment, eyes traveling from his handsome face to the dark blue uniform that he wore day in and day out. The shiny silver of his badge gleamed in return, pronouncing his authority and proudly sporting more than its fair share of nicks and dents. Just below, his small nametag displayed his name, 'Officer Tyrone Davis Jr.', although even after over a year of experience he still wasn't used to the title, and occasionally felt a bit incompetent and --more often than not-- pretty green. 

His pensive reverie was abruptly interrupted as Bosco broke into the reflection, embellishing the mirror with his flushed and hurried figure. Ty turned, curiously watching his friend and the amusing demonstration of flying clothes and muffled grunts of displeasure as Bosco attempted to perform a full change in record time. He noticed that Sully and some new kid were watching as well -- Sully, shaking his head at the typical episode; the kid wide-eyed and open mouthed as if he were shocked.

Bosco was oblivious to his audience, though, and continued to struggle into his uniform, hissing in exasperation when his turtleneck shirt refused to cooperate fully and maliciously twisted around his muscled torso in lumpy bunches.

"Shit..." he muttered as he rushed, his frenzied fingers grabbing at the fabric and yanking it down. The shirt immediately loosened into its rightful place and Bosco proceeded to struggle with his pants. 

"You'd better hurry or you're gonna be late..." Ty nonchalantly warned, noting the time -- or lack thereof.

"Thanks, Einstein..." Bosco snapped, glaring at him. He glanced over to his right where the new kid was standing, eyes still wide at the flustered display. "What you lookin' at?"

The newbie immediately averted his gaze to the floor and shook his head nervously as he spoke in a vacillating voice, "I, uh...nothing. Sorry."

"It's okay, kid. You'll get _real_ used to this," Sully scoffed to the youngster, who couldn't have been much older then eighteen and stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the seasoned police officers. 

"What the hell's that supposed to mean, Sullivan?" Bosco spat back, obviously perturbed, his face starting to flush red from exertion and frustration. 

"I mean, you're always late and you're always an ass."

"What's up your craw, huh?! Krispy Kreme burn down last night?" 

"Com'on, Davis, lets go," Sully commanded, rather then invited, as he left the room in his usual jaded gait, but his expression showed the faintest signs of contentment and mirth. Peeving Bosco had to be the longest-running entertainment the job had to offer, and he took a small bit of pleasure in irking his hotheaded friend. 

Shaking his head and smirking amusedly, Ty threw a shrug in Bosco's direction as he left, mentally chuckling at the comical jousting. Sully seemed to be in a good enough mood... 

Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

The placid tranquility of the station house was audaciously overrun by rowdy footsteps pounding up the narrow staircase and loud, shouting laughter as the troop of paramedics and firefighters made their way into the warmth of the cozy dining room.

Doc, alone at the huge round table, glanced up as his ears were assaulted by the roaring of Walsh and DK as they shared some mirthful hilarity at Carlos' less-then-awake appearance. 

"Guys, guys, show a little respect!" Jimmy rebuked them sarcastically, flashing his jovial dimples as he straightened, clicked his heels together, and brought his hand up in a full military salute. "Salute your Major... Major Bed-head, that is!" 

Stumbling in behind the hooting and howling bucket-boys, Carlos was the picture of death-warmed-over, and it was completely understandable why the witty, jesting gang of firemen and medics weren't about to let him pass without a few lighthearted quips.

The station immediately ripped into a fit of laughs at Jimmy's double entendre, and even Doc couldn't suppress an amused snigger, ducking his head in an effort to hide his smothered chuckles.

"Hey, Nieto, try to come to work more alive then dead -- otherwise Doc might be tempted to use the defibrillator on you!" Bobby teased, playfully smacking Carlos on the back of the head as he passed him on his way up to the bunkroom. 

"Yeah, yeah..."Carlos waved them all off with a bat of his hand and slid into a vacant chair, letting his face bury into his palms as he struggled to rub the sleeplessness out of his red-rimmed eyes.

The room quickly emptied once again as the staff of Camelot made their way upstairs to change for the approaching shift. 

"God..." Carlos moaned, sighing overdramatically. "I'm so tired... Stupid tests kept me up all night at the books..."

A long silence followed his pathetically delivered remark, and Doc knew that his lamenting was just another ridiculous gambit to get him to empathize with the young medic and perhaps cut him some slack. But alas, Doc had no such sympathy for Carlos, and shook his head, grinning humorously at his tousled, heavy-eyed partner. 

"Carlos, you aren't going to win any pity from me. It was your choice to juggle med school along with your job." Doc shrugged apathetically, still highly amused, and then added his own corny wisecrack, "You made your bed, now sleep in it." 

Carlos rolled his eyes at Doc, the cleverly utilized saying all too tempting right then, "Oh, funny..."

* * *

A chorus of scuffling and the loud raking of metal chairs being dragged across the floor permeated the modest room, echoing off of the faded linoleum and nearly-bare walls as the small space was rapidly filled with uniforms and badges. 

Ty slipped into a vacant seat near the door and the new kid haltingly took the chair beside him, his big brown eyes darting around the room as he struggled to process the proceedings and events of his first day. 

The look on his face, one of pure nervousness and apprehension, brought Ty right back to his own first day on the force. His mind wandered, remembering the way that everyone had ignored him, leaving him alone in the roll call room until Sully had come for him. Through all of the excitement and anxiousness of the day, he'd felt excluded and out of the 'loop', and then to make matters worse, when Sully had casually strolled up to collect him, he'd felt as though he was a little kid being picked up from day care. 

Choosing not to aid in bequeathing the new kid with any similar memories, he turned and stuck out his hand. "Name's Davis. Ty Davis."

An instantaneous, relieved smile lit the young face, and he reached to reciprocate Ty's friendly greeting. "Steven Gusler," he replied. "I'm new."

"No kidding -- couldn't tell," Ty grinned, shaking his head at the blatant obviousness of Gusler's nervous statement. 

Lieutenant Swersky entered the room and stepped up to the rostrum, a handful of loose papers gripped in one hand, a mug of steaming coffee in the other. His eyes, aged and wise beyond their years, scanned the room leisurely, gaze flitting from one face to another. 

"Afternoon," he addressed the small crowd, forcing a smile to light his tired face. Weeks of an unusually high crime rate had worn him out, and his world-weary appearance replicated it. Wasting no time, he delved into the important information of the day, his voice even and melodic as he spelled out the notices, warnings, and 'who-to-watch-out-for's. 

"...and I want you all to be careful out there," he finished up. "That bad storm's supposed to hit around nine, so please be safe, okay? Have a good shift. Dismissed."

The room was once again thrown into an animated compilation of sound and movement as most of the officers hustled out the door, off to onset another chapter in the constant drama that encircled their occupation.

"Lieu, you know where Yokas is?" Bosco asked loudly over the racket, his tone displaying evident concern as his eyes darted around, searching for the familiar blonde of his partner's hair. 

Ty found himself looking about the room as well, immediately becoming aware of her atypical absence. This wasn't like Faith. She never showed up late -- that was Bosco's job...

"Yeah -- she called in sick," Lieu stated laconically. "You're riding with Davis today. Sullivan, you take the new kid." 

His command was rewarded with mixed reviews; Gusler, happy to be paired with a partner, all the others nearly groaning when they heard the new arrangement. Sully heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, the familiar 'great-I-have-to-babysit' look plastering across his face as an annoyed mask. Bosco was just as put-out, it seemed, and he opened his mouth as if he'd just been insulted, the rest of his face scowling incredulously at his lieutenant.

"What? She's sick? She looked fine yesterday!"

Lieu shrugged in flagrant indifference and shook his head. "Sorry, Bosco, she said she had some nasty stomach bug. She should be back in a few days."

"A few days?!"

"That's what she said."

Bosco crossed his arms in dissatisfaction as Ty gathered his hat and gloves, ready to go. "You comin'?" Ty asked, his brow raised in a questioning arch, pretending to not have heard the way his obstinate friend was protesting. 

"Yeah..." Bosco sighed, still looking quite bothered as he got up and stalked out of the room.

_Oh, this is just great... The one time I get Bosco, he's in a bad mood, _ Ty thought as he followed his new partner down the corridor to claim their radios. _ One very long day for two, please. _

* * *

In an advantageous dash for the warmth of the soon-to-be heated environment, Bosco plowed through the parking lot, making a beeline for the RMP that sat in the corner of the lot.

The older, modest car had character -- as Davis would soon find out. Spidery cracks in the leather steering wheel from years of wear, seats that had been used and abused until they could be considered 'bucket seats', a trick seatbelt, and several long scratches in the white paint all made up what had been a second home to Bosco for years. Comfortable and well broken in, the RMP exuded personality and a dog-eared charm. 

Shivering slightly from the harsh cold, Bosco quickly unlocked the driver's side door and opened it, popping the passenger lock as well. Ty moved to do the same, but Bosco's voice stopped him with firm instructions regarding what would be the protocol for the day. 

"First things first, Davis. This is _my_ RMP, so I'm the boss - got it?" 

Curious by the unconventional --but not wholly unexpected-- order, Ty looked at him for a long moment, his mouth trying fastidiously to mask the amused smirk that attempted to warp his even features. His deep brown eyes sparkled though, giving his forced sincerity away entirely. Bosco had to be one of the most interesting and humorously entertaining persons that he'd ever met. 

"Sure, man...whatever," he shrugged, plopping down and into the car as if he didn't give a damn -- which he didn't. 

Shaking his head in stupefaction, Bosco slid into the front seat, rocking the cruiser slightly as it took to his weight. What the hell Davis was so amused at, he had no idea. It seemed like the guy was perpetually happy... The familiar smells of aging leather and coffee were ever-present in the familiar environment, relaxing him, and he sighed in satisfaction. 

Before he started the car, he stole a glance over at Davis, who was preoccupied with fastening his seatbelt across his lap. Truth be told, he wasn't really upset at all about having to ride with Ty --hell, riding with another young guy might be fun for a change-- but the dreariness of the day and the foul mood he'd arrived in had only egged him to become upset over the trivial matter. 

"Hey, Davis, you've only ever ridden with Sully, right?"

"Yeah, that's right..." Ty shot him a slightly confused look, still struggling to fasten the trick belt.

Bosco chuckled and shook his head, a pleased grin working its way across his face. As far as he knew, riding with Sully was like the kindergarten version of being a cop -- easy and calm, never any of the good action that he craved. Ty was in for one hell of an interesting day... 

"Well, get ready for some _real_ police work -- we're gonna kick some ass today."

* * *

"So...uh, what do we do now?"

Sully sighed deeply, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes or lash out a snide comment at the tentative question. No, he should be nice to the new kid. This would be, after all, the one day in which the young cop was allowed to really screw up and be utterly annoying. Without a doubt, there would be a hailstorm of equally wet-behind-the-ears questions to follow, transmuting what could have otherwise been a normal, boring day, into a 20 questions free-for-all. If the kid didn't have his act together by tomorrow, the eye rolling and tongue-lashings would definitely commence -- no holds barred. 

"We get our fix." 

A long silence followed Sully's curt and vague answer, the newbie obviously wracking his brain for the section in his handbooks that called for a 'fix', his youthful face screwed up in a look of pure bafflement. 

"Our fix...?" he ventured hesitantly.

"Coffee," Sully growled, dangerously low on patience. Although it was only five minutes into the shift, he was already craving the familiar rush of caffeine and wondering if this kid would be a 'two-cupper'. The slang term was fabricated by Sully and the other more senior cops to describe the level annoyance that a newbie would provide them with the first day. The more difficult and/or annoying the trainee, the more cups of coffee one would need to put away to stay sane. 

Sully stole a glance at Gusler, silently giving the kid a once-over. Hands twisting in his lap, a gaze that never stayed long on any one thing and darted around nervously, a mouth that hung open slightly and wide eyes burning with thousands of curious questions. Definitely a two-cupper. 

"Oh... Okay," Gusler nodded, then fell silent once more, as if pondering which all-too-obvious inquiry he would subsequently inflict upon Sully. 

_That's right, kid, _ Sully silently prodded, _Be quiet. Stay quiet. Don't bother m--_

"So then what? Should I call in our 10-98?"

Sully repressed a groan and put a bit more pressure on the gas, willing the car to the nearest 7-11. Right about then he would have given his left leg to have Davis back. 

* * *

Intent on finding a drug deal going down --or any sort of criminal activity for that matter-- Bosco let the RMP cruise leisurely down the street, his practiced eyes carefully scanning the full sidewalks. In the hundred yards or so that he could see ahead, there weren't any clusters of pot-smokers or even shady loners standing to the side, waiting for offers. Instead, pedestrians plagued the walkways and crosswalks, the fast-paced city appearing to be as busy as ever -- and conspicuously free of crime. 

Ty settled back in his seat, bored already. He and Sully never did this sort of thing, and usually spent their downtime conversing idly or writing tickets for parking violations. Riding with Bosco was definitely going to be a learning experience...to say the least. 

"What is this?" Bosco hissed as he shook his head in annoyance, his eyes clearly not thrilled with what he was or wasn't seeing. "Where's all my skels?"

"Maybe you arrested them all," Ty suggested impassively. 

"Ha! Fat chance of that -- they multiply like rabbits. New ones come here every week from who-knows-where."

"Why don't you try down on the south end...seems to be a seedier area. Sul and I have caught a few dealers down there."

"And that's _exactly_ why you need to learn this stuff from me. See, you hav'ta go uptown to the nicer lookin' places - more money. More money, more drugs," Bosco chanted, raising his brow and nodding his head as his mouth curved into his infamous smirk.

Ty pondered this for a second. The man did have a point...

"Ah-ha!" Bosco exclaimed and pointed up ahead. "What'd I tell you?"

Ty followed his extended index to the street corner that was half a block in front of them. A tall skinny man stood rocking back and forth on his heels, hands stuffed in his over-sized coat's pockets, his eyes wandering around the streets a bit too uneasily. 

"That's Endo -- little punk likes to sell right under my nose. I nearly busted his dumb ass last week for drug dealin', but he'd already gotten the goods off to the next guy," Bosco grumbled quietly as he raptly watched the impious dealer. "Not this week..." 

"Looks like he picked the wrong spot to deal, huh? There's a school about a block up that way." Ty gestured to the school crosswalk signal that graced the nearest street sign.

"What an idiot..." Bosco hissed, his face breaking into a lop-sided grin, evidently extremely pleased. He pulled the cruiser to the side of the road, shoving it into park and settling back in his seat to watch the impending deal go down. "Oh, this is goin' to be _way_ too much fun..."

"You think he's gonna sell now? With us right here?" Ty asked incredulously, his tone and expression equally disbelieving.

"Yep, he's that stupid. Watch." 

Bosco had no more than finished his sentence when a car pulled up to the curb in question. Hesitating somewhat, Endo looked around cautiously a few times and then approached the vehicle, pulling his clenched hand out of his pocket in a mock show of friendliness. Through the rolled-down window, the driver 'shook hands' with the edgy dealer, sealing the transaction, and then quickly roared down the nearest side street. 

"Damn...he _is_ an idiot," Ty murmured, shaking his head, utterly taken aback. The guy had to be the biggest morons that he'd ever seen. Selling drugs not two hundred yards from the police --and to top it off-- within a school zone. 

"Alright, I've seen enough," Bosco stated, promptly hopping out of the car. Ty followed, reaching for his nightstick as an added measure of defense. Dealers were tricky, and no one could ever really predict exactly what would ensue once they attempted to bust them.

"You think he's armed?" Ty asked.

"Not this one. He only shoots off his mouth."

"Right..."

In apparent eagerness, Bosco took off across the street, swaggering up behind the moronic fool of a drug dealer, all the while swinging his nightstick blithely. Endo, turned around and facing the opposite direction, was unaware of the approaching enforcement and began to tap his hand on his upper thigh -- a known drug sign of the streets.

"Endo, my man!" Bosco shouted when he was no more than a foot behind the man, startling him so badly that he jumped and spun around rapidly. Bosco clamped a hand quickly onto Endo's shoulder, firmly warning him not to try anything. "How's it going, pal? Huh?"

"Bosco...what a surprise, man," Endo sputtered, his face lighting with the usual hangdog, jumpy, 'I-hope-they-don't-find-the-goods' look that Bosco and Ty had long-since grown accustomed to. "Uh, what's goin' on?"

"Not much - heard you got a new jacket, though. Lemme see..." Bosco chatted nonchalantly as he reached to pat the man down. "Looks like its got some ample pocket room... Now what would you need such big pockets for?"

"Hey!" Endo complained and quickly pushed away from Bosco, shaking his head in insubordination. "You can't do that -- you don't have probable cause! Fourth amendment -- I got my rights!" 

"Oh-ho, look who's a lawyer now! What'd you do -- start watching 'Law & Order' all of a sudden?" Bosco scoffed, slamming the protesting dealer into the wall. Keeping one hand tightly pinching Endo's neck, he reached with the other into the deep pocket of the man's inner coat and fished around. His scowl quickly turned into a smirk when his inspection paid off and rewarded him with a wad of plastic zip-lock bags full of white powder. He yanked them out quickly and waved then in front of Endo's face as he taunted, "Hey, look here -- looks like was have _actual_ cause! Try arguing your way out of this, lawyer-boy!"

"Hey, Bosco, that ain't mine. I swear, it ain't!"

"Yeah, and the moon is made out of cheese, pigs fly, and this coke here is--"

"C'mon, man!" Endo interrupted, whining in protest. 

"Sorry, pal, you picked the wrong city to deal in..."

"You takin' me in?"

"Oh, yeah, you're goin' to jail. You know -- 'do not pass 'go', do not collect two-hundred dollars'..." Ty reeled off offhandedly, jumping in. 

With a good deal of satisfaction, Bosco snapped cuffs on Endo's wrists, firmly securing flailing hands behind his back. The dealer recoiled as sharp pains shot through his arms as a result of the tightened metal, and he immediately started to whine. "Ow! Damn, that's too tight!"

"The handcuffs are tight 'cause they're new," Ty pronounced sarcastically, "They'll stretch out after you wear them awhile..."

Bosco laughed at the snide remark and shoved the remonstrating man into the back seat of the cruiser. He then turned, holding up the fist-full of powdered coke and grinning like a fool. Mischievously, he smirked and winked and at Ty, pleased as hell. 

"And _that_ is how it's done."

* * *

Sully carefully pulled the RMP up to the sidewalk, taking care not to slide on the ice that covered the glistening street. Still already utterly fed-up with his new 'recruit', he didn't bother to explain why they were stopping. It wasn't like the kid wouldn't be asking anyway...

He mentally counted down the seconds until the next guileless and green question would discharge from the rookie, whom he'd newly dubbed 'bothersome-question Zen master'. _Three...two...one..._

"What are we doing now?"

"Parking violations," Sully barked grumpily, shoving the ticket book into Gusler's hands. In no mood to procrastinate, he got out of the car and marched down to the nearest meter, checking for the red flag of a run-out.

"You want me to write?"

"No, I want you to shove it up your ass..." Sully muttered under his breath, his gruff words lost in the wind. 

After finding a timed-out meter, he knocked on the hood of the beige Lincoln that was occupying the space and nodded at Gusler. "Write it up."

"Yes, sir..." Gusler breathed earnestly, his excited fingers fumbling with the pad. Gloves never worked well with that type of notebook, but Sully didn't bother telling his raw trainee, and instead found a small bit of hilarity in watching him struggle. Hey, if he had to endure a whole day of this crap, he'd might as well enjoy it...

* * *

"Get a load of this, Boss," Bosco declared as he slid the evidence bag full of coke across the slick countertop of the admittance desk. "'Crack-in-the-box' here thought it was a good idea to sell in a school zone today..."

The sack stopped when it met Swersky's open palm, and the lieutenant raised his brow and nodded at the two young cops, obviously pleased with the amount of illegal substances that they had procured. 

"Is this coke?" Swersky asked, picking up the drugs and holding it up to the light for a better look. The white powder gleamed like thousands of tiny diamonds in the florescent lighting, sparkling and tempting with the promise of a few hours of painless nothing. However, to the three cops that were currently gazing at it, it only spoke of a job well done. 

"Yep," Ty responded, concurring and reiterating the information, "one-hundred percent, unadulterated crack cocaine..." 

The Lieutenant took a moment to ponder the scale of their catch, and then nodded his satisfaction at the impressive accomplishment. "Good collar, guys," Swersky congratulated, eyeing the dealer wryly as he handed Bosco back the evidence. 

"Only the best -- right, pal?" Ty poked at Endo, who was now glowering contemptibly, and ushered him up the stairs to lock-up.

* * *

"Uh...he's gonna need a room -- king sized bed with a view preferably," Ty stated to the officer in charge of the two cells that lined the back wall like human-sized kennels. Aged and dreary, the long-standing cells had held their fair share of winos and deadbeats, crack whores and gangsters, and proudly displayed their wear and tear from many a beating. Empty now, they craved to hold another warm body, their daily use an essential service. 

Playing along with Ty's satirical mocking, the officer shook his head solemnly and gestured to an empty chamber, "This is all we have, I'm afraid... All our best rooms are booked up."

"Awww, man..." Bosco feigned disappointment and rolled his eyes in 'displeasure'. "Okay...I guess it'll have to do," he agreed reluctantly, smirking at the guard whose boring day had just livened up with sarcastic fun. 

"I hope you enjoy your stay at _le downtown lockup, monsieur_," the officer declared sardonically in a mimicked French accent, making a show of unlocking the confinement cell by sweeping the door open as though he were welcoming a king. 

Planting his palm firmly in the middle of their arrestee's back, Ty shoved Endo forward into the tiny chamber, satisfied when the man pitched forward and nearly fell flat on his face. Finalizing the arrest, Bosco slammed the door shut, the noise reverberating around the room as a loud echo.

"C'mon, guys, cut me a break..." the dealer bellyached and scrambled up, pressing his face up to the chain-link 'walls'. 

"You know how it is, man," Bosco shrugged, frowning and shaking his head at him in apparent condescension. "Life's tough...and it's tougher if you're stupid." 

* * *

To Be Continued... I hope you guys still like it **:)** Make my day and tell me what you think! I appreciate it so much!


	3. Name Of The Game

**Chapter Three**

Name Of The Game

.

A/N: Thank you all for such _wonderful_ feedback! It always puts a smile on my face and continues to blow me away! I hope I'll manage to live up to the great reviews, so I'll leave you with this chapter and cross my fingers :) You all rock! 

**Happy New Year!**

* * *

The mid-afternoon hours heralded the impending storm by permitting a few gusty breezes to sweep through the otherwise calm city, letting all and sundry have a undersized sample of the furious wrath that was soon to be unleashed. The dark gray, roiling clouds did nothing but warrant the winds, sneering down pitilessly as if to say, 'Just you wait...this is nothing'.

Bosco and Ty, however, were oblivious to the threatening horizon, and were instead filling the RMP with good-humored prattle and jousting. The loud squeal of tires and the roar of a thundering engine abruptly interrupted their conversation, which had quickly turned into a who's-got-more-game competition.

Before either officer had the time to react to the unanticipated clamor, a black, late-model Subaru hurtled by the RMP, shaking it and the passengers inside noticeably from sheer speed. 

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Bosco exclaimed and slammed both palms against the steering wheel in a flagrant show of infuriation. As usual, he wasted no time at all, quickly shifting out of the parking space that they occupied and flooring the accelerator down in an attempt to pursue the speeding vehicle. 

"Damn..." Ty murmured, snapping on his seatbelt -- a prudent preparation for the imminent chase-down-- and flicking on the lights and sirens as they sped down the street, his widened eyes glued to the racing car ahead. 

Two blocks down the street, they finally caught up and Bosco proceeded to tail the car, deliberately matching its speed. Averting his eyes from the soon-to-be owner of one of the largest tickets he'd written thus far, he glanced at the speedometer and whistled in amazement at the readout. "Goin' 70 in a 45 zone! Not too smart, jag-off!"

Pre-empting his partner's subsequent move, Ty grabbed the bullhorn mike and spoke into it coolly, "Pull over to the right. Now."

The car slowed, as if the reckless driver hadn't realized that the police car had been flashing its lights and sirens for _him_ to pull over the whole time, and then hauled off to the right into a nearby alleyway, slamming on the breaks in an evident demonstration of exasperation. 

The RMP pulled in right behind, Bosco still shaking his head in disbelief. "This guy... I swear, what an idiot."

Ty nodded his approval of the brusque heckle as he unfastened his seatbelt, "Yeah, I hear ya." 

Grabbing the necessary ticket book and then taking a moment to bundle up again, the two officers exited their vehicle and strode up to the car. Using his curved index finger, Ty rapped on the hideously tinted driver's side window, an unspoken order to roll it down immediately. 

The dark glass pane receded smoothly into the door, revealing the driver and surprising the officers slightly as the youthful face of what appeared to be a late teen came into view. After a quick glance into the rear of the car, it was apparent that the backseats were full of teenagers as well, all finding the situation very droll for some odd reason. 

"What the _hell_ was that?" Bosco hissed at the reckless driver, slamming his fist against the doorframe. "You know how fast you were going?"

"Sorry, Officer," the boy shrugged semi-apologetically, "I was just having a little fun with my friends, didn't realize I was speeding... You know how it is..." The young kid gave Bosco a knowing look, a dim-witted and immature attempt to persuade the officer to empathize and side with him, and perhaps degrade the ticket down to a mere warning. 

But by the way that Bosco suddenly clenched his fists angrily, Ty could tell that his cohort wasn't happy with the puerile lack of respect at all, and he watched very interestedly as his friend leaned in and lowered his voice until he was virtually growling. 

"When I was your age, _punk_," Bosco snarled, nearly gritting his teeth, "I was in the reserves. I 'joyrided' on a tank. But I guess if you count the ten sergeants screaming obscenities in my face as my 'friends'...then yes, I _do_ know how it is." 

Not expecting the sudden mocking antagonism, the boy's mouth fell open in shock. But he quickly recovered, his eyes flashing piercingly into anger when he realized that the officer wasn't about to let him go with just a warning.

"You have some sort of quota you have to fill?" he snapped crossly, scowling back in utter defiance. A few muffled titters erupted from the backseat as the rest of his posse found his cheeky irreverence hilarious.

"Quota?" Bosco huffed, turning to Ty with an ambiguous expression fixed on his face, his eyes glinting mischievously, betraying the peeved scowl that warped his mouth. "Do we have quotas anymore, Davis?"

Ty readily took the opportunity to openly scorn the blatant immaturity of the young kid, and leaned in as well, shaking his head. 

"Nah, we don't have quotas anymore," he stated as seriously as he could manage, struggling to remain stern and staid. "We used to have quotas, but now we're allowed to write as many tickets as we want."

"Damn straight," Bosco nodded in agreement, fishing out his ticket book and pen. "Now where were we? Oh, yeah. License and registration..._NOW_."

* * *

"55-Charlie, report to a theft at 2514 Princeton," the radio sputtered noisily, much to Sully's dismay. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and sighed, relegating the next hour to another perfect example of just why he should retire. 

"Can I call us in?" Gusler wanted to know as he grabbed his shoulder radio tentatively, a questioning look smothering out the curiosity and awe that had dominated his features for the majority of the day. 

Sully --bored, annoyed, and apathetically stolid-- merely shrugged his consent. "Sure...why not," he retorted dryly, his tone a fusion of triteness and sarcasm. 

Gusler's whole demeanor brightened at the permission, excited to use the airways like a 'real' cop. "Central, this is mobile unit Fifty-Five-Charlie. We will be responding to the theft report at 2514 Princeton immediately..." he articulated slowly, sounding as though he thought that the dispatcher was a bit on the slow side. And then as an afterthought, "Uh, 10-4." 

"You'd do better to say less, kid," Sully riposted matter-of-factly. "Wastes oxygen." 

"Oh."

The radio crackled again, this time bedecked with the mocking guffaw of the amused dispatcher. "Oh, thank you ever so much, 55-Charlie - I will _immediately_ show you as en route to that call... It has been a pleasure doing business with you," he drawled at an even slower rate, poking fun at Gusler's more-then-polite call-in. 

"Knock it off, Larry -- I got fresh meat today," Sully sourly warned. "Give me a break."

"Ahhh, fresh meat..." chuckled the radio knowingly. "Have fun with the Hotdog!"

Disgruntled by the flagrant delight from the dispatcher --who was fortunate to be working in a heated room and very well might have had his feet propped lazily up on his desk-- Sully scowled and rolled his eyes.

"Hotdog?" Gusler asked, obviously confused by the lingo that he had not yet grown accustomed to. Regrettably, at the Police Academy there was no class teaching the standard jargon and slang terms that peppered the street cop's language throughout the day, and the 'fresh meat' often had a difficult time adjusting. Consequently, this difficulty only provided yet another reason to voice further questions. 

By this point, though, Sully felt as though he had been officially interrogated by the Gestapo and had little or no tolerance for another grilling. 

_God help me_, the seasoned officer silently begged. _Patience...patience..._

Taking a deep breath, he thought of Tatiana -- her soft gray-green eyes, bright smile, and her enchanting exotic accent-- and this eased his exasperation to some extent. Only a few more hours of the expected, routine monotony and he would be back with her. 

Forcing a more polite attitude and a half-smile, he turned to the young kid. "Another name for rookie," he explained. "Hotdog, Cherries, Gopher, Young Warrior, Fresh Meat... You'll probably be called them all before the week's out."

"Man..." Gusler breathed quietly as his face twisted into a disenchanted frown.

Sully had to chuckle at the kid's obvious dismay, then winked good-naturedly and added as an addendum, "Or the technical classification: Wide Eyedicus Bushy Tailicus."

* * *

"55-David, respond to a disturbance of peace at the south end of the park on Arthur."

"God...who the hell is out disturbing _my_ city today?" Bosco hissed, scowling in an overstated show of his annoyance and distain. 

The wind was unquestionably picking up outside the cruiser, angrily blowing and buffering the vehicle as he drove it. Sleet had masked the ground and buildings with a thin rime, sparkling brightly in the rare sighting of the afternoon sun. It was obvious that the weather was on the brink of turning south, with the wind indicating the severity soon to come. 

If Bosco had a choice, he would be inside, and had no idea what possessed people to wander outside in the first place, and _then_ have the gall to commit a crime. They were all bastards, as far as he was concerned. 

"I guess we'll find out, huh..." Ty shrugged indifferently as he picked up the CB to respond. "South-end park, 55-David, 10-4." 

* * *

Their footsteps echoed loudly off of the derelict, flaking walls, providing an eerie pounding and cave-like feeling to the two that shuffled down what seemed to have once been a decent, hardwood hallway. Mold, dirt, and trash littered the grime-caked floors now, dusting the lost wood with filth and neglect. 

Sully lead the way, his expression yielding nothing except the typical facetious, yet charming, ennui that was his preferred facade. Emotion on the job could only get one in trouble - therefore, he suppressed his, and resorted to sarcasm and irony to fill the void. It was strange, yes, but it worked for him. Everyone had their own place, their own ways to cope - Ty had his legalistic sense of justice; Bosco, his fervor and hot-headedness; Faith, her consideration and empathy. That was how it was, and it was comfortable.

Unfortunately, Gusler had no knowledge of the twisted quirks that decorated the 55th with colorful flavor, and the young man was floundering his first day, noticeably trying desperately to fit in somehow. He trotted after Sully, eyes ever widened, his mind whiling with doubts and questions, but his gut forcing him to keep the majority of it to himself. 

Sighing heavily, Sully stopped before the mangled, marred door in question, but hesitated slightly, as if he were not anticipating the impending words and gratuitous nattering that would surely follow the announcement of their arrival. 

"Police," he declared nonchalantly while knocking on the peeling brown wood.

Raring to go, Gusler shifted his weight back and forth, eager and anxious to resolve their latest 'crisis'. 

The door cracked ajar a smidgen, and a severely obese woman squinted out at them from poke-hole eyes, her pale skin greasy from disregard and her hair a matted chaos of reddish frizz. Upon recognizing the officials that graced her entrance, she opened the door about halfway, her heavy, fat jowls joggling with her head as she nodded in satisfaction.

"Good, it's about time you got here," she muttered, her slightly parted lips revealing an accumulation of crooked yellow teeth. "Now you can arrest their sorry hides..." 

"We got a call about a robbery, ma'am," Gusler started, politeness fortifying his voice like dripping honey. Sully nearly rolled his eyes. 

"Yeah, that's right," she confirmed, bobbing her head again and sending her chins into a tidal wave of jiggling motion. "Someone stole my dog." 

"Your_ dog_?" Sully hissed, incredulous about the significance of the call. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back slightly, his body language clearly stating 'here we go again -- let's hear it'. 

"Yeah, those damn chinks downstairs stole 'um and ate 'um. I know they done it when my Bugsy didn't come home las' night."

Amused to some extent by her blatant racial prejudice, Sully raised his brow and suppressed a smirk. It never failed to amaze him how some people were so ill-bred and ignorant -- Big Bertha being no exception. 

"Ma'am, I seriously doubt anyone ate the dog. Did you see them take it?" Sully sought to know, annoyance lacing his tone as he was still disbelieving that they had actually been summoned to a 'dog-napping'. He'd figured that he'd seen just about everything in his twenty plus years on the job, but this had to be a new one. 

"No, but I smelt somethin' a cookin'... You know them Chinese, they eats animals - dogs and cats! They did it 'an you'd better arrest 'um for it!" she screeched, her voice nearly as irritating as the mere sight of her. Gusler was visibly wincing at her clamor, slinking back slightly as his face twisted into a disgusted grimace. "They took my Bugsy an' ate 'im! I know it!"

"Okay, okay...calm down, now," Sully begged to reason with the distressed shrieking. Conjuring up the best way to deal with the 'situation', he proceeded to fib his consequent mode of operation. "Well, I can't arrest them without a body or evidence, but I'll tell you what I'll do - I'll write them a ticket, okay?"

A frown creased her adipose tissue as a long line, exaggerated by the lard that had to shift significantly for the movement to occur. "Fine," her tone pouted, but her pleased sneer gave away her feigned disappointment. It was obvious that she had an ulterior motive to castigate her --more likely then not-- innocent neighbors. "Jus' so long as they pays for killin' my Bugsy."

"Shouldn--" Gusler started, his puzzled gaze darting from the blubbering mass to Sully's annoyed face as he tentatively held up the ticket book. 

"They will," Sully stopped the rookie mid-word, silencing him with a long look and a slight shake of his head. He forced a polite smile to grace his features as he tried to reassure the corpulent woman. "Don't you worry about it, ma'am, okay?"

"Okay," she beamed, her bulbous cheeks pushing at her eyes until they were mere slits with lashes. "You do that... They need to pay..." she muttered under her breath as she closed the door after them.

Sully immediately started down the hall, impatient to get out of the odoriferous hellhole and away from the stench that robbed his nostrils of any contentment. 

His partner's abrupt ending to the problem and successive departure confused Gusler, however, and the young kid stopped Sully with another God-forsaken question. 

"Aren't we going to write a report?" he asked diffidently, unsure of how procedure was to be reached, irresolute in what his superior officer was doing about the situation.

"For what?! A 'dog-napping'?" Sully growled, anticipating this question -- amongst the others that were sure to follow. Compared to this kid, Davis' first day was a piece of cake. Sully could only hope that the rest of the day would yield nothing of any exigency or danger, for fear the rookie would panic, freeze...or worse. 

"Well...you said that--"

"Look, kid," the older officer interrupted brusquely, "the dog probably wandered off last night and is a frozen 'pup-sicle' in some alley somewhere. There's no call for a report, let alone a ticket."

"So, why'd you tell her that then?"

"To get her off our ass..." Sully answered truthfully, then turned to look Gusler right in the eye, his tone abruptly serious. "If you're gonna learn one thing out here, you need to learn that its our job to solve problems, not fix the world. We can't do enough, so we do what we can."

* * *

Crumbling asphalt crunched beneath their feet as Ty and Bosco ran through the barren park, trying to stick to the worn sidewalk for additional traction. The frozen lawn yielded nothing but a slippery haven of slick ice, and neither man felt like falling flat on his backside mid-chase.

Loud shouts heralded the fistfight that corrupted the desolate basketball court at the far end and the medley of wrestling, yelling bodies that littered the pavement.

"Dammit," Bosco breathed harshly as they sprinted down the walkway. "Gang fight..."

Ty merely nodded his grim concurrence, the thick frigid air cutting into his lungs like an ice pick, harshly impending his speech. It was obvious, though, that he was as unenthusiastic as his partner regarding the situation at hand. 

It was not unusual to break up two or three such fights in a week, but no cop took the call if he didn't have to. The threat of knifes, bats, shanks, and sometimes guns, had no appeal to the officials and they avoided being the responders at all costs. Unfortunately, there had been no warning as to exactly what type of disturbance that this was, and the two young cops had gotten roped into taking it.

"Dammit..." repeated an evidently upset Bosco.

The hostile, combative skirmish seemed to swell in magnitude as they drew near, and Ty found himself subconsciously counting the number of struggling men that they would have to pull apart. 

_Three...six...eight... Shit..._

His eyes caught the glint of metal and instantly focused on a long knife gripped in the hand of a heavy-set man. The guy, oblivious to the approaching enforcement, started to lunge for another grounded man, maliciously stabbing the knife down as he went.

"KNOCK IT OFF!" bellowed Bosco, slamming into the assailant forcefully while simultaneously knocking the knife from his grasp. The irate gangster quickly recovered and swung around, swinging his fists blindly at his unseen antagonist. Bosco was quick, however, and ducked just in time, drilling his own fist into the big guy's unguarded belly. Immediately following the staggering blow, the man folded over in pain, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. 

"KNOCK IT OFF! ALL OF YOU!"

Half of the tussling gangsters looked up at the officer's strident command, and then scrambled to their feet upon seeing who had so rudely interrupted their 'war'.

"Cops!" someone cried frantically, spiraling the intense confusion into a hurried chaos, and quickly turning a large portion of the fighting into slapping feet of retreat. 

"Oh, no you don't!" Ty shouted as he was nearly trampled by the heard of running men, catching the arm of one of the most aggressive fighters and pulling him away from his intended flee. "Oh-ho, no! No, you stay here..."

In the meantime, Bosco had managed to procure the violent gangster that had tried to punch him, grasping the collar of the bigger man with both hands while wrenching the fabric so that there was little room left for movement. 

"Wow!" he exclaimed loudly, right in the ear of his squirming detainee. "Look who it is, Davis! Our good friend from the 2-6ers..."

Ty took a second to catch his breath, bending over slightly and heaving a few heavy sighs before nodding his recognition. "Hey, Kirk - fancy meetin' you here..." he greeted the illustrious gang leader casually as he strained to keep his own perp's fighting hands pinned behind his back. 

His informal greeting only served to infuriate the already struggling Kirk, and the enraged gangster quickly snapped back, "K-smoove! It's K-smoove, and don'chu fo'get it!"

"Okay, _K-smooth_," Bosco jeered slowly, ridiculing his rather outlandish nickname. "Get your arms behind your back - you know the drill very well, I'm sure..." 

"What? You only arrestin' me? Wha' 'bout the others? You jus' gonna let them all go? I ain't the only one fightin'!"

Bosco took a long moment to pause and look around, deliberately noting the lack of any 'others' in the hastily emptied court. "Yeah...seems that way, doesn't it? See, you were stupid and tried to hit me while they all ran. So I guess I got stuck with you...or vise versa," he sniped as he clipped a pair of handcuffs on his catch. "Game over, loser."

Realizing that he was getting no leeway from his obstinate captor, Kirk twisted around until he faced Ty, and glared at him with the usual 'hey-the-white-boy-is-oppressing-me' look that often followed one of Bosco's arrests. "You gonna let him get away with this? Com'on, man, help a brotha' out..." 

"Sorry," Ty shrugged, fastening a handle on his own detainee. 

"It ain't fair!"

"Fair? You want me to be fair?" Bosco snapped coldly, forcefully slamming the struggling man up against the chain-link fence that was surrounding the court. "Listen, pal, fair is a place where you go to ride on rides, eat cotton candy, and step in monkey poop. This is the real word. Get used to it."

"Go to hell, Boscorelli!" Kirk snarled irately as Bosco dragged him towards the waiting RMP.

"You first."

* * *

Because the ritual three knocks didn't seem to work the first time, and the absence of a doorbell, Doc resorted to using clenched fist on the ornate cast-iron door. He lowered his head and placed his hands on his hips after a few seconds of total silence met his announcement, sighing softly at the predicted delay.

The penthouse apartment that they had been called to was dreary at best, but boasting wealth with its pricey Christmas decorations and stained-glass windows. For all the world, the apartment looked akin to something out of an old English storybook with its charming, but rather dark, curios and design. Unfortunately, it was a place that Doc and Carlos knew all-too-well --the owner being one of their few frequent-flyers-- and they were forced to patronize the residence at least once a week for various medical complaints.

A soft thump emitted from within, and Carlos shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Here we go..." he whispered to his partner, knowing exactly what would commence once they were let inside. A barrage of complaints --all dreamt up, it seemed-- would greet them, stemming from the mouth of the mature lady that called oh so regularly.

The door flew open abruptly, revealing the woman herself, her superfluous wheelchair draped with a heavy coverlet.

"Oh, thank God, you're here," she gasped, her deceivingly frail-looking hand resting against her bosom as though she were in a great deal of pain. The shrewd medics knew better, however, and causally ignored her melodramatic demonstration. 

"Hi, Mrs. Arden," Doc smiled as courteously as he could manage, but Carlos didn't bother relinquishing even half as much, already becoming peeved at the mounting number of times that they had been summoned to her side in the last few weeks. "What seems to be the problem today?"

Carlos busied himself with fastening the blood-pressure cuff on her upper arm while Doc took his stethoscope and tended to her heart with an astute hand.

"Well," she started slowly, gazing warmheartedly at Doc in an apparent endeavor to win his sympathy and full concentration. It was obvious to both paramedics that she was fond of Doc, her 'hero' -- or so she called him. Laughingly, there was nothing that he'd done in past visits that would have merited this title, but he understood her loneliness and need for attention, and withstood her bemoaning and frivolous flirting long-sufferingly. 

"Today I woke up from my nap with the most awful pain in my chest. It's just dreadful -- something fierce." She patted the right side of her chest indicating the proximity of the pain, and instantly dispelled the concern of a forthcoming heart attack by implying the wrong area. This only served to annoy Carlos, who was by this time, 'fed up with her shit', and he proceeded to widen his eyes and let his mouth fall open in mock horror. 

"That side?" he gasped exaggeratedly, raising his brow. "Are you sure?" 

Mrs. Arden nodded quickly and proceeded to act as if an intense pain suddenly enveloped her heart by letting out a moan and dramatically throwing her head back. "Oh dear, there it goes again..."

"BP 120 over 90, pulse 70," Doc mumbled offhandedly, trying to stick to business. 

"Do you have pain anywhere else?" Carlos asked, simulating a worried sincerity as he laced his hands together before him. 

This question pleased the 'ailing' woman greatly, and she began to rattle off a compilation of symptoms and pains that probably could never have occurred simultaneously in anyone -- save a victim of a forty-foot fall or something as equally severe. 

"God, Doc," Carlos breathed as he frowned with contrived concern, "you know what that means, right?"

Now, usually Doc would have never let Carlos get away with the disingenuous ploy that he was about to pull, but he himself was also growing weary of the problematic woman's incessant calls and open flirting, and instead chose to let his young partner carry on in his sarcastic con.

"'Fraid so..." Doc nodded seriously, gathering up the bag of medical supplies.

"Is it...bad? Am I dying?" Mrs. Arden whispered, appearing deceivingly frightened, but her face illuminated like a floodlight at the dreadful sounding news, as if hoping for that coveted trip to the emergency room that she had been pushing for the last month and a half. 

Carlos shook his head solemnly at this and paused, clearing his throat as though preparing to proclaim her certain doom. This only fueled the fire in Mrs. Arden's desirous eyes, and she leaned forward in her wheelchair, impatient to learn of her fate.

"You have...hypochondri-itis," he stated, being economical with the truth while inventing a disease that derived from the medical term for a patient with imaginary symptoms and ailments.

Doc stifled a laugh at Carols' distorted terminology and grave delivery of the 'horrid' news, and stood to leave, grabbing up one of the heavy meds bags. 

"How bad?" she wanted to know, her hand now at her throat.

"Oh, well...it's pretty advanced... But I'll tell you what," Carlos offered, "if you drink plenty of fluids and don't have a whole lot of excitement in the next few weeks, you should be perfectly fine. And that includes calling us, 'cause I know all of this," he gestured to himself and Doc, "is kind of stressful, huh?"

She knit her brow at the recommendation, not entirely satisfied with the prospect of not seeing her favorite medics for the next fortnight, but then nodded and relented, using the information to align with her 'distressed' physical condition. 

"Yes, I suppose that all of this excitement isn't too good for my heart... I should take it easy..." she agreed, now in good spirits due to her newfound malady.

"You do that, ma'am," Doc approved and stared for the door. "Keep healthy, now. I don't want to have to see you for quite a while."

With one more exaggerated sigh, Mrs. Arden acquiesced and gave a weak farewell wave of her hand. 

Carlos nearly skipped out the door, letting his face spilt into an infectious grin as he and Doc made their way to the elevator that decorated the anteroom outside.

"Oh my God, that was great! Did you see her face? It was like she couldn't believe that we actually found something 'wrong' with her!" he laughed gleefully. 

"I don't really like doing that," Doc sighed. "You know, lying to her and all."

"What?! Oh, com'on, man -- you know her...she's as healthy as a horse! I don't know about you, but I'm sick of being her personal 'nurse-boy' or whatever."

"She's just lonely, I guess..."

"And annoying," Carlos prompted. "And an incurable hypochondriac. And a waste of our time and the city's money. I just got her off our backs for like, two whole weeks! Don't tell me you aren't just a little bit happy about that..."

Realizing that in that case, Carlos had done what needed to be done -- maybe not in the most sagacious way, but he had indeed paid everyone a favor by ending her tomfoolery for a time. Although he liked to stick to the books and be fair, treat every patient with the same respect and courtesy, Doc knew that he couldn't, and wouldn't, be able to be perfectly evenhanded. Besides, her face was...priceless.

Shaking his head, he found himself smirking back at his puckish partner. "Hypochondri-itis, huh?"

* * *

"Here we go," Bosco pronounced as he stopped before a large mound of rags and trash clustered up against the graffiti spattered wall. 

Kirk, aka 'K-smooth', had been unceremoniously dropped of at the 'bad-boy day care' just over a half hour before, along with Davis' detainee. The unlikely pair of cops had received another impressed glance from Swersky as he noted the amount of criminal activity they had managed to shut down in a few hours, sending them both into a good mood.

Now the duo tromped through a derelict alley that was icy from recent condensation and completely trashed from downright neglect. Rats scurried away at their footsteps, scattering into shadows amongst the soggy boxes and rotted wood. 

The 'victim' that held their attention was slumped up against the wall, tilting precariously to the right as if he'd fall over at any second. Hoarfrost covered his middle-aged face, clumping on his rough beard and eyebrows and sealing his eyes shut with a fine layer of rime. His mouth hung slightly ajar, the moisture that had previously occupied the orifice frozen solid as a white crust. It was apparent that the man had died quite a while ago, and nature had done its part in embalming his body to preserve it almost perfectly. 

His face was what captured Bosco's attention though, and he stared at the frozen man for a long moment before recognizing him. "Hey, this's the guy that keeps robbin' the convenience stores around here... I've been tryin' to bag him for like a month!" 

"He's got to be the whitest white guy I've ever seen," Ty stated, his churlish remark referring to the even layer of white frost that covered the man, causing his skin to blanch strikingly. "I mean, even you _pale_ compared to him, Bos," he wisecracked.

Bosco grimaced at the terrible play on words and shook his head, "Oh, ha ha -- funny..."

"You think he's dead?" Ty posed wryly, nodding deprecatingly at the ice-covered heap of bum.

The alleyway was silent for a moment as Bosco squatted down next to the body and gently poked a petrified shoulder with the end of his nightstick. The man's form was so stiff and frozen that it yielded nothing, not moving or shifting in the least bit. Bosco frowned slightly, shaking his head at the misfortune of the poor guy. 

"Uh...yeah. That's an understatement."

"Looks like he just fell asleep, huh?" Ty wondered aloud, noting the curled-up position of the body and the blanket that wrapped the man's lower half. The expression on the corpse was peaceful, showing no signs of a painful death. 

"Yep, happens every year. They just fall asleep and never wake up. Awake one minute, pushin' up daisies the next."

The soft hiss of brakes being applied turned their heads to the lane at the end of the alley, heralding the arrival of the paramedics. In an apparent and ridiculously pointless haste, Kim and Bobby hopped out of their ambulance and trotted quickly over, bearing a hodge-podge of miscellaneous medical baggage. 

"What you got, guys?" Kim asked as they drew near, unaware of the deceased's current state, her learned gaze never leaving the crumpled heap at Bosco's feet. 

"He bought the farm. Frozen solid," Ty stated simply, as there was no really other way to put it. 

"Just takin' a dirt nap," Bosco chimed in, adding his own cliché to Ty's and making light of the situation, "after he cashed in his chips and kicked the bucket." 

Bobby chuckled and shook his head, smiling brightly at their engaging wordplay as he dropped down beside the still form. "Aww, com'on..." he quipped right back, his deep, intense eyes twinkling with mirth. "He's not dead...he's electroencephalographically challenged..."

"Alright, boys, knock it off," Kim admonished her chortling coworkers, taking charge of the situation as she performed an unnecessary examination of the clearly perished bum. "You have any idea who this is? Any ID?" 

"Nah," Bosco shook his head, "but he's from around here. Likes to rob the 7-11's late at night -- slipped though our fingers a few times. Far's I know, he's a wanted bum." 

"Oh, okay. Well, we'll take it from here then, guys," Kim nodded at the pair of officers, gesturing to the cadaver with her gloved hand. "I don't think he's going to give us any trouble."

Bobby quirked his brow at Kim's offhandedly humorous remark and widened his eyes in mock fear. "He'd better not..."

"Later," Bosco held up a hand in a half-wave, turning back down the alley the way they came.

"Never got caught, huh?" Ty retorted to Bosco as they walked towards their RMP, stuffing his hands casually in his coat pockets, and trying fastidiously to stifle a smirking grin. "What should I write on the report then...? 'Vanilla Ice beats the rap'?" 

* * *

To Be Continued... Write me up what you think and make my day! I love getting feedback! :) 


	4. Save Tonight

**Human After All**

Save Tonight

.

A/N: I swear, you guys blow me out of the water! Thank you all so much for such wonderful support - I couldn't do this without you! For your GREAT reviews, I made this one extra-long ;) 

An extra special warm thanks goes out to Joey, who edits my mistakes away!

* * *

**_Save tonight_**

And fight the break of dawn

Come tomorrow

Tomorrow I'll be gone

* * *

"55-David, respond to a domestic dispute at Grant and Arthur. Weapons and injuries reported."

The contemptuous second of silence following the pronouncement was broken grumpily by a low growl from Ty, who was scarcely beginning to defrost from the last excursion outdoors. Bosco seemed to be just as inconvenienced. 

"Aw, come on! Not even a freakin' break between one brainless moron to the next," the hotheaded officer groaned loudly and rolled his eyes, an affronted frown unbecomingly creasing his handsome features. 

Ty simply agreed, nodding knowingly and somewhat intolerantly, understanding the level of Bosco's annoyance perfectly. Their day had been heavily peppered with the usual idiocy and futility that was unfortunately all too common, relegating the pair to run after run without an end in sight. "Yeah, seriously," he replied unenthusiastically, shaking his head as he tipped it back and sighed, "I'm starting to feel like an underpaid, overworked babysitter."

Providentially, the frigidly gusty day was quickly dimming into nightfall, and the dark of night normally ebbed such activities to some extent. The added severity of the forthcoming nor'easter was just another great reason that the criminals had to clear the streets and remain dormant. Ty could only hope that they would do so. 

"God must really love stupid people, 'cause he sure made a lot of them," Bosco growled spitefully, turning the RMP around to head towards their latest assignment.

* * *

Spotting the dispute couldn't have been easier, for the two men in question were standing in the street dead-center, blood running freely down their faces, one brandishing a broom handle, the other cowering and trying to avoid another blow from his aggressive antagonist. Infusing the situation with dramatic lighting from their red and blues, Doc and Carlos sat about a hundred yards back, waiting in Adam-55-3 for Ty and Bosco to break up the fight before they moved in.

"Wow, déjà vu," Bosco muttered in an unimpressed manner as he drove the cruiser right up behind the undistinguished conflict. "Haven't we seen this one, like, a half-million times before? You'd think with all the so-called evolution goin' on, people could think up better ways to break the law."

Opening the door ushered in the frostiness of the twilight hour, and caused both men to involuntarily cringe at the unwelcome draft. 

"Damn... If it gets any colder out here, I'll believe that Hell can freeze over," Ty shivered as he exited the warmth of the car. His exposed face was instantly clouted with raining ice, certifying his previous statement with unsympathetic authenticity. He rolled his eyes and sighed, halfheartedly trudging after his partner as he groaned out another objection to the ungodly conditions, "And now we have sleet, dammit."

Hell just might have frozen over, it seemed, or at least it felt as though any and all warmth had been sucked out of the city by a vicious vacuum, and then replaced by a strong wind whipping tiny ice shards at anything that stood in its way. But the weather quickly lost precedence in the conversation, and was exchanged for the ardent commands of an annoyed Bosco.

"Alright, enough!" he hollered loudly, drawling his nightstick as he strode up toward the obvious provoker. "Cut it out, you! Put the stick down!"

"Like hell!" the man barked, taking another swing at his recoiling neighbor, the rod producing a noisy whoosh from the high velocity of the attack. And then, as if his blatant disobedience wasn't enough rebelliousness to suffice, the antagonistic man proceeded to fling a warning arc at the two officers. Neither flinched. 

"Com'on, do what he says," Ty snapped, stepping up beside his partner while unclipping the snap of his gun holster, ready to pull his weapon if need be. "You don't want to disobey him, trust me."

"What, your friend _'macho cop'_ or somethin'?"

"No," Bosco began in a terse tone, slapping his nightstick against his palm angrily and taking a deliberate step towards the angry guy, his blue eyes flashing stridently, "I just have -- how'd they put it, Davis? Anger management issues?"

"Yeah, except I think it was more like 'maniacal tendencies'." 

"Oh, that's right," Bosco nodded sarcastically, his face twisting into an irate glower as he proceeded to hurl back his baton as though he were on the verge of striking the perp in the head. "Now put the damn stick down, or I'll mess your face up so bad, your own mother won't recognize you... I MEAN IT!"

Per request, the man promptly dropped the broomstick and raised his hands in the air indifferently, a glimmer of fear lighting in his widened eyes. But his pretentious mannerisms continued to fully portray a foolish and reckless noncompliance. 

"Shit, man--" he began to spit out, shaking his head slowly as if he were displeased with the way he was being dealt with. Bosco was fast, nevertheless, and had already rushed in and swiftly smacked the back of the perp's knees with his nightstick, forcing the man to his hands on the icy ground. 

Fully satisfied with his efforts, Bosco wasted no time in seizing his collar by the back of the neck. "Not such a ball-buster now, wise-guy, huh? I got some pretty bracelets that I think will look _so_ nice on you," the provoked and peeved officer sniped, dangling his cuffs in front of the downed perp before he yanked him to his feet and harshly directed him to the back bumper of the RMP. "Put your paws on the trunk, moron."

The man begrudgingly placed his hands in the cold metal, but glared the officer in the eye defiantly, as though on the brink of snapping out another insolent retort or moving from his ordered position.

Bosco, thoroughly not in the mood for any backtalk or insubordination, was quick to lash out, "Take your hands off the car, and I'll make your birth certificate a worthless document. Capeesh?"

Ty stifled a snicker at his partner's choice of words, and was recompensed with a sideways smirk and slight nod of head. Bosco was obviously enjoying himself. 

"You think you're so tough, huh, jus' 'cause you're a cop," the overconfident, hostile perpetrator sneered in an idiotic effort to remain burly and cocky, boldly pushing himself up off the cruiser. His imprudent choice of words and actions did nothing but feed his arresting officer's anger and annoyance. 

"No, you've got that wrong, pal," Bosco snapped gruffly as he slammed him down again, forcing all of the air out of the angry man's lungs with a satisfying pop. "I'm even tougher _without_ the badge and gun."

The perp groaned in pain, but was relentless with his quest to become the most dim-witted delinquent to date, brutally kicking Bosco's shin with his heel. "Faggot," he muttered boisterously as he gasped for air. 

That did it for Bosco, and he yanked the guy's head up buy his hair, and then hissed spitefully right into his ear, "Are you always this stupid, or are you just making a special effort today?"

"Ten bucks on the former," Ty bet dryly, helping his partner snap on cuffs and then shove the squirming man into the backseat. 

"You have a right to remain silent-" Ty began, but a very irked Bosco cut him off, finishing their scripted monologue in his typical snide fashion, "-Yeah, and anything you say will be misquoted, and then used against you... Jag-off."

"You guys okay?" Doc called from the back of the bus, where he was tending the injured butt of the brawl. A confused frown was clear upon his face, but he didn't seem too worried about the two officers. They looked to have everything under control. 

Bosco slammed the door in their detainee's face, scowling at him through the window. "Super," he shot back, hoping to end all conversation and return to the warmth of the cruiser, but Carlos was already on his way over, never one to miss out on some good action. 

"Bagged another idiot, huh?" the young medic quipped as he rubbed his hands together for warmth, his breath a billowing white cloud in the sub-zero air. "Saw him kick you, Bos."

"Yeah, yeah..." Bosco waved him off as he made for the driver's side door, smirking facetiously and shaking his head in the process. "But calling this guy and idiot would be an insult to all the stupid people." 

* * *

Sleet speckled the windshield in even layers, interrupted by the swift curve of the wipers as they dutifully pushed the minuscule shavings to the fringe of the glass, only to be mocked by a new layer of hoarfrost to clean away. Old Man Winter seemed to be blowing raspberries at the city, a precursor of the rage that was building in his bowels. 

The ambulance, encircled by red and white flashing lights and heralded by the strident drone of sirens, was justifiably cautious with its speed, taking care not to slip or skid on the accumulating ice. If the weather had chosen to cooperate, Bobby could have made it to their destination five minutes prior to then, but in lieu of clean, dry streets that were familiar and easily navigated, he found himself easing on the brake pedal more then the accelerator. 

"It's a good thing this call's minor, 'cause we're really burnin' rubber here, Bobby," Kim noted sarcastically as she peered out her window at the sky, watching the churning clouds as they rolled in. "Damn storm."

"What street was it again? Elm?" asked her partner as he squinted ahead into the dusk for a better view of the street signs that interspersed the avenue that they were cruising down. The headlights of the bus weren't fully picking up the reflective green of the road markers, and the conditions outside were causing it to be increasingly hard to make out even a few letters.

"Nope, Elm was an hour ago. 1273 Maple Street," Kim rattled off and then took a long sip of her steaming coffee, undeterred by Bobby's absentmindedness, as she understood fully the reason why he'd forgotten. "Third 'tree' address in the last four hours. Go figure."

Her comment seemed to amuse the good-tempered Bobby, and he chuckled, his mouth curving jokily into a lop-sided grin. 

"Ahhh, suburbia..." he sighed, "where they tear out the trees and then name streets after them."

* * *

Growing more and more bored by the minute, Bosco strummed his fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently glaring at the dashboard clock as if to will it into speeding ahead a few hours. Thoroughly disenchanted by the early hour readout, he frowned at the taunting numbers and bit back a disgruntled groan. Although bored and antsy, he was grateful for the small breather that they had been afforded, and sank back into his seat with a listless sigh. At least he wasn't out in the mess of a storm that was swiftly sweeping in. Boredom was the lesser of the two evils. 

Davis, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in the daily, his brow furrowed as he read and then re-read the latest reports, eyes dancing back and forth across the pages as they devoured the columns. 

"Hey," Ty piped up as he shook out the newspaper that held his attention, dispelling some of the lazy flaccidness of the slowly curling broadsheet, "that murderer that we took down a while back just got the death penalty. Says here, he gets maximum security and three life sentences without the possibility of parole -- plus the eternal blink."

"Electric chair, huh?" 

Becoming interested, Bosco's dark cobalt eyes turned from their somewhat diligent surveillance to gaze at his partner, a rare flicker of sadness unpredictably lighting in them. Ty knew, however, that his partner's troubled expression was not on behalf of the criminal's punishment, but for the victims that had fallen to the merciless hand. 

"Yep," Ty nodded. 

"Well, he deserves it after what he did to those woman..." Bosco said, his tone soft but simultaneously terse with resentment. It was obvious that the case had done its best to scar the officer, leaving him resentful and disconsolate in its heavy wake. Because of his own involvement in the case, Ty could relate, but he lacked the ardor and fervor that Bosco's liquid blue eyes held. 

"Yeah, maybe..."

"Maybe?!" Bosco spat. "What, you think that hackin' up a half-dozen innocent girls to pieces doesn't deserve the deep fry? You think he needs to live? You've gotta be kiddin' me..."

Ty was silent for a long moment, pondering his stance on the death penalty. "I don't know, I guess I never really thought about it before... Each side has its own pros and cons..."

"Don't be so open minded, Ty," Bosco snorted, "or your brains will fall out."

The smart-aleck remark was met by a soft chuckle from Ty, easing the weightiness of the moment to some extent and drawing a smile to light his features. "Yeah, man, whatever..." he smiled as he waved him off. 

"I don't know about you," Bosco shook his head dolefully as if disappointed with the world, "but after all the stupidity I've seen today, I don't think they should use the electric chair -- they need to use electric bleachers."

* * *

Spying what his eyes were on the lookout for, Doc pressed his foot on the brake and flipped up the blinker light to signal the forthcoming curbside stop. 

"What're you doing?" Carlos asked in a less-then-patient tone, a brow raised indifferently, his mouth distorting into a half-scowl, suggesting his disapproval of the sudden delay.

The endless stream of questioning was never unexpected from Carlos, and Doc usually found himself either ignoring his partner completely, or just treating each query and claptrap voicing as rhetorical. This method seemed to work to some extent, typically affording him a few seconds of quiet between the perpetual idioms and interrogations. 

Choosing to follow his customary path of silence, Doc afforded young Carlos nothing but a slight shake of his head before pulling the lumbering bus off to the side of the street. 

"Why are we stopping?" was the next blurb to spout out, and Carlos was leaning forward now, neck outstretched so that he was a mere six inches from his mentor's blank stare.

Letting out a soft sigh of annoyance, Doc nodded ahead to the dark sidewalk currently illuminated by their headlights. The crumpled heap that marred the ground was barely discernable as human, but Doc had seen far too many cruel winters hit the city, and was an old hand at finding out the homeless. The man he'd spotted that night lay on the frozen ground, curled up in a tight fetal position as he struggled to retain body heat in the frigidly bitter night. 

"We got time between calls, so we're gonna help get some people to shelters." Doc's statement was simple, as was the delivery. He had a heart for the people of his city, and wasn't about to leave any man or woman to freeze to death on the streets if he could help it. His empathy and compassion were admirable at best, justifying the soft kindheartedness in his passionate brown eyes, but Carlos seemed to find this proposal of good deeds another pesky bother in his 'hassle-ridden' schedule. 

"What?" he hissed, crossing his arms brashly across his chest, his defiant stare clearly stating a great deal of annoyance. "Now we're a taxi service?" 

Doc shot him a disappointed frown, hoping that it would be enough to shut his immature partner up. Alas, Carlos was not one to take hints, or even flat-out decrees for that matter, and continued on audaciously, "C'mon, we have better stuff to do. The shelter's like two blocks away - they can walk if they want."

"Yeah, and what if they can't? Should we just let 'um freeze to death out here? Kim and Bobby already picked up one frozen corpse this afternoon. You want more tomorrow? Have a heart, Carlos - most of these people can barely get around as it is," he lectured, shaking his head in frustrated disgust.

"Oh, okay," the younger medic spat, "so sorry I'm not as righteous as the _great and mighty_ 'Saint Doc', but I sure as hell not heartless."

"Whatever, Carlos. Just help me out, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine... They'd better be grateful that I'm freezin' my ass off for their sorry ones..." he muttered as he moved to exit the bus.

Doc found himself grinning slightly and shaking his head at his partner's fairly predictable response. Yeah, so Carlos had a big mouth, a careless attitude now and again, and a less then compassionate demeanor, but he'd never quite been able to mask his soft spot for people completely behind his hard-bitten, smart-ass exterior. Perhaps one day he'd be able to drop his facade entirely and fess up to the fact that he did have a rather big heart. But for now, the indifferent bastard of a Carlos would have to do.

* * *

"Hey, can we pull over up here?" Ty requested, gesturing at the gas station ahead. "I, uh...have to use the 'little boy's room'..."

Much to Ty's chagrin, Bosco's head snapped around quickly, and he stared at his partner like he'd suddenly grown another head, his brow raised and then quickly lowered into a confused frown. 

"What?" he spat incredulously, frowning and half-smirking in tandem, clearly knocked for six at the nondescript expression. Never failing to live up to his reputation, Bosco then continued on with his derision, drawing out the words leisurely while displaying an overt combination of mock and disbelief. "The _little boy's room_?!" 

A bit surprised by the unexpected ridiculing, Ty simpered almost sheepishly, ducking and shaking his head slightly, and then staring straight ahead again in apparent awkwardness. "Yeah..." 

"Well," his ostentatious counterpart began, cocking his head smugly and lowering his voice until it suggested the exact amount of sarcasm and scorn that he thought befitted Ty's unintentionally entertaining comment. "I don't know about you, Davis, but my boys ain't little..."

Of course, Bosco would turn it into one of his legendary ego trips.

"Dude -- it's just an expression," Ty chuckled, smiling at his partner's overstated narcissism and the way it was so easy to throw the zealous officer for a loop. "Chill out." 

"Central to available units, respond to a rape at 605 York, apartment 4C," the radio interrupted their manly banter, dispelling the good-humored fun with the report of the discouragingly grave incident. 

The two men fell silent at the call; jaunty smiles instantly wiped clean from their young faces as each simultaneously dreaded having to answer. Rapes, although all too common in the big city, were particularly hard on Bosco, and only served to maliciously remind him of the brutal ways his own mother was abused for so many years. As for Ty, when he would see the horror and desolation inflicted on the victim, he could only think of such a crime happening to one of his sisters, and the thought was always enough to throw his stomach into furious knots.

"55-David, 605 York, 10-4," Bosco quietly responded as he pulled the RMP into the street once more, sending the lights and sirens glaring and blaring with a swift flick of his wrist. 

"Second time this week, huh?" Ty commented distractedly, begging to fill the abruptly ill-at-ease silence with idle drivel. 

"Two times a year is too much for me," Bosco spat softly, his tone lined with animosity and bitterness. Ty couldn't agree more. There was that look that the rape victims always wore, an ethereal, waiflike look that spoke of violation and soul-deep despair. This one would probably be no different, and would most likely haunt a dream or two in the near future.

"Yeah..." Ty concurred in a low voice, still completely in awe and dismayed at the merciless cruelty of humankind. "Yeah, me too..."

* * *

"Wow..." whispered an obviously nervous Gusler. He glanced at Sullivan, biting his lower lip as he did so, his adrenaline beginning to rush from excitement.

His senior partner was a whole lot less moved, to say the least, and hadn't shown any disturbance at the proclamation of a rape. Sully, after years of practice, was very good at repressing emotion, and had unperturbedly called in as backup to 55-David with not so much as a voice inflection. He had no desire to induce any more stimulation on his trainee, which would surely throw the kid into a nervous breakdown the way he was going. First 'real' call, and Gusler looked about ready to wet himself. Sully bit back the urge to growl in frustration. 

"Put on the lights." He opted instead to resort to simple and understandable commands, rather then commenting on the nature of the crime or what horrors were in store for the young kid. No doubt, today would leave quite a mark, burning images permanently into Gusler's fresh, naïve mind, and Sully wanted no part in making it any worse then it had to be. If he were to remain competent, so might his trainee...or so he hoped. 

"Yessir," Gusler breathed, reaching to flip the switch. His hands shook noticeably, and he kept swallowing at what Sully assumed was a large lump forming in his throat, eyes blinking rapidly from enthused agitation. 

Fresh meat. 

_Davis_, the seasoned officer mentally groaned, _where the hell are you? _

* * *

Lamps were broken, tables overturned, glass shattered unceremoniously across the floor, the front door left wide open in the wake of a hurried exit. Disaster marred the modest, homey apartment with the sickening promise of violent devastation. 

But the destroyed apartment had nothing on the victim, who was standing all but naked in the bedroom, her dark auburn hair dampened with sweat and hanging limply in her face, green eyes reddened and swollen from hot tears, underwear brutally shredded from her battered body. Choking cries sadistically wracked the room, smashing into the chests of the responding officers with heartbreaking force. Wavering somewhat and swaying in place, the woman was beside herself, clutching a phone in her sticky, bloodied hands as she sobbed hysterically. 

Sill always appalled by the ruthlessness of rape, the two cops were taken aback at the sight of the panic-stricken, terrified young woman, and hesitated noticeably before entering the room.

Bosco was the first to recover from the temporary standstill, and made his way slowly to her side, speaking softly in his 'don't-spook-the-victim' voice while holding his hands up as an illustration of his non-offensive intentions. "Hey, hey... It's okay - were here now... You're safe, it's okay..."

The phone that was clutched in her trembling fingers buzzed as it spoke mellifluously; the individual on the other end perceptibly trying to console the poor woman. It took a second for Ty to realize this, and he moved in himself, gently prying the plastic receiver out of her hand as Bosco struggled to calm her choked and terrified, gasping sobs. But his well-intended efforts only saw fit to send her into even greater agitation and she shook her head over and over again, desperately fighting her hysteria as though she was trying to tell them something. 

"It's okay, it's okay," Bosco soothed over and over again, discreetly grabbing up a thin blanket from a nearby chair and wrapping it around her heaving shoulders to swathe her nakedness. He led her to the edge of the blood-spattered bed, and helped her lower her bruised and broken body down to the sheets. 

The phone was still murmuring with one-sided conversation, and Ty hastened to answer the concerned prattle. "Hello?"

"This is the emergency dispatch. Have the police arrived?" a man promptly responded, clearly worried, but entirely competent.

"Yeah...yeah, we have," Ty stated distractedly as he watched Bosco squat down in front of the woman, showing a rare sighting of empathy and commiseration as he kindheartedly took her bloodied hands into his own, all the while still attempting to calm her with low, gentle words of consolation.

"I couldn't get much out of her, she was crying so hard -- but she said something about her daughter... Is the little girl okay?"

Suddenly stricken with alarm, Ty scanned the room quickly with a practiced eye, and noted the absence of any such child. "No. No, I don't see her... Send back-up forthwith," he clipped brusquely into the receiver before hanging it up, instantly extremely unnerved.

Upon hearing the abruptly tense tone of his partner's voice, Bosco's head snapped up, his expression unmistakably confused. Thinking only of the prospect of an abducted child, Ty disregarded the questioning gaze and dropped down to his knees next to his mystified cohort. 

"Ma'am?" he started, articulating slowly and succinctly, his subdued and troubled manner pleading for her tears to stop for just a few seconds, or long enough to get information out of her quivering form. "Ma'am? Where's your little girl? Where's your daughter?"

Bosco immediately straightened and stiffened, his breath catching in his throat and dread lighting in his own eyes at the revelation of an involved child. 

But Ty's semi-frenetic questions only sent the overwrought victim into an even more frenzied fit, and she struggled to breathe properly as her body supplicated for carbon dioxide enough. 

"He...he...to-ok...her..." she managed to sob in a distraught whisper, her slender frame thrown into a spasm of trembling heaves as hysteria overtook her completely, fleecing her of physical control. "T-took...Julie...!"

"Oh my God," Bosco whispered as he stood abruptly, eyes wide and mouth hanging open from shock and repulsion. His partner's reaction was similar, but the equally sickened Ty also struggled with the urge to vomit as his ears took in the horrifying news.

"When? Just now? How long ago?" Bosco's frantic queries aroused even more tears, but also a subtle nod off her head. "How long ago?!" he repeated assertively, harried for the amount of time that the man had ahead of them, his bright blue eyes nearly gray with fear.

"F-five...minutes...m-maybe...I don't...k-know... He...knocked...me out..." she sobbed, her cries mounting to an apex of piercing, grating shrieks. The woman looked as though she was on the verge of passing out, and Ty grabbed her elbow to prevent her from pitching headfirst onto the hard floor. 

Footsteps and a loud knock on the nearby doorframe alerted the two officers to the arrival of their back up, and Ty was relieved to find Sully standing at the door, the wide-eyed new kid tailing closely behind. Bosco ignored their presence, however, and pressed the woman for further details, biting back the impatience that nipped at his voice as he bent down once more to look her straight in the eye. "What'd he look like?"

The molested woman gasped and heaved for adequate breath before she choked out a meager description, "T-tall, thin...white w-with...dark hair... Was wearing...a green coat... Help her! S-she's...only four!"

Bosco nodded and bounced up onto his feet again, nearly shaking from nervous anxiety. "Don't worry, we'll find her!" he promised hastily and turned; nearly running out the door past their bewildered back up. 

Ty hurried after him, clapping Sully on the arm as he left, explaining the circumstances in a low murmur, "She's raped and the guy took her four-year-old. Take care of this?"

"Sure," Sully consented, nodding his head as a look of stunned astonishment and distain skewed his even features. "Go!"

* * *

Bosco had the RMP started and was on the verge of pulling out from the curb when Ty jumped in, starting to become out of breath from the recent four-floor dash down the stairs and the nervous consternation that was causing his heart to race madly.

"Which way?" Bosco bellowed, half to himself, half to his partner. 

Making a rudimentary snap decision, Ty nodded his head to the north and reached for his seatbelt. "That way."

"55-David to Central, we have a possible child abduction from the rape case. Four-year-old girl missing. Suspect is a white male, tall, dark hair, and wearing a green coat. We're headed north on York," Bosco belted into the CB while hurtling down the street.

"10-4, David."

"How far d'you think he got?" Ty wondered aloud, stress pulling at his voice.

"Don't know... Just keep your eyes peeled."

A few seconds of edgy silence swept the tension into harsh reality as the two pondered the severely grave predicament of the young child. Without a doubt, the accosting rapist would have no qualms performing unspeakable acts on the baby, and the thought was nearly too much to bear.

Bosco found himself grimacing at the validity of the horrendous events that had just transpired, a familiar sickened nausea filling his chest and stomach with acidy vehemence. Deep breaths calmed his angry nerves to some extent, and sloppily repressed the tears of rage that threatened to soften the suddenly hard lines around his eyes. 

"Son-of-a-bitch!" he snapped furiously after his searching gaze yielded nothing but normal activates on the nearly deserted sidewalks, and a horrified infuriation consumed him as he slammed his white-knuckled, clenched fist into the steering wheel. "I'll kill him! I swear to God, I'll kill him... Son-of-a-bitch!"

The expected outrage did nothing for Ty except instill the dread that consumed him, and provoke the nervous tension filling the RMP with heavy force. Bosco continued to rant, but the rapid pulsing of his heartbeat quickly stamped out his partner's incensed voice.

_God, help us... Keep that little girl safe... Don't let him... _Ty couldn't bring himself to finish the hasty prayer, and instead distracted his apprehensive self with searching the evacuated avenue for anything green, but was rewarded with nothing.

Intersections and crosswalks all melded into one green-jacketless blur as they sped, and Bosco felt his hands becoming numb from his unearthly tight grip on the wheel. Forcing himself to calm slightly, he took a deep breath and exhaled, blinking away the fog of sheer ire that clouded his vision. 

And that's when he saw it: a flash of dark green fabric up ahead a block or so, moving fast. Running, it seemed. 

"Shit, Ty!" he hissed as he waved his hand at the figure, now discernibly a man wearing a heavy green parka, slowed down by the unmistakable form of a small child in his arms. Blonde, flaxen curls peeked out from his shoulder, contrasting sickeningly against the dark of the coat. Nausea made it's way up his throat, but he suppressed it with a vigorous swallow and a shaky breath. 

"Oh my God," Ty whispered, immediately unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for his gun. Nerves pacified somewhat by the discovery, mounted to a dreadful climax once again at the proposal of a chase, or even the mere capture. God only knew what would ensue in the moments to come, and the fear of the unknown was heavy and terrifying and nerve-racking all at once. 

"Gotcha now, you bastard!" Bosco breathed through gritted teeth, twisting the wheel sharply, cutting across two lanes to align the car with the fleeing rapist. "I'll kill you..."

Without warning, the man stopped his malevolent flight, screaming to a halt beside a dark burgundy pickup-truck that was obviously his intended getaway vehicle. His momentary halt only served to give him reason to glance around uneasily, and his edgy gaze quickly settled on the approaching police car.

"Oh, shit..." Ty murmured when they were no more then a half-block away, taking in the expression etched on the man's face as he shoved his package into the front seat. Shock flitted across his features, but he was fast and quickly recovered, jumping in as well and slamming the door behind him. The glaring red of his taillights instantly illuminated the darkened street as he ignited the engine and prepared to take off. "...Oh, man."

"Dammit!"

Bosco was, by this time, completely enraged with passionate fury, his blood boiling wrathfully as he begged his body to cooperate and stifle the nervous queasiness heaving through him. His emotions clashed with his instincts, and he fought to keep a level head and do the correct and most advantageous thing. Right then, it was to stay calm, pursue the vehicle, and pray to God that everything would turn out okay. "Call it in, Ty," he barked in an incensed whisper as he pounced once more on the accelerator. 

His partner was already a step ahead, however, and was holding the microphone to his lips, snapping a call in to Central Dispatch, "55-David to Central, suspect has procured a vehicle and is heading north on York. We're in full pursuit -- requesting backup."

"10-4, David, continue pursuit. We'll get you back up."

Bosco found himself nodding at the dispatcher, as if the faceless voice could see he approval. A quick glance at the speedometer saw them speeding along the auspiciously vacant avenue at an alarming 65mph. The truck ahead showed no signs of slowing, and in fact, seemed to be picking up even more speed -- if that was at all possible.

"Bos," Ty gestured to the road lit by a few streetlights and the blue and white flashes of their lights. "Watch out for ice, man."

In the wake of the crime and shocking realization of a kidnapped child, it hadn't occurred to Bosco that there was indeed accumulating ice and sleet -- and now snow-- slicking the road. His practiced eyes took in the dark of an ice slick to the right and he tensed as he quickly swerved to avoid it, narrowly missed the deadly rime and skidding a few feet in the process. The RMP squealed in protest, sending off hideous resonations of warning as it fought wildly to stay in control. 

"God-dammit!" he hissed, feeling his heart stop and then re-start once more, struggling with the steering wheel as it jerked back and forth, tires slipping and slewing on the icy road. 

Ty was equally startled, and slammed back into his seat in an effort to steady himself. His gloved hand sought the 'Jesus bar' and held on for dear life, eyes squeezing shut reflexively. "Whoa, whoa, whoa...! Shit, man!"

"I got it, I got him," Bosco mumbled his meager consolation as he righted the cruiser once more. His blue eyes flashed angrily as he saw that the truck had managed to gain a quite a few yards on them in their fight with the ice, and was racing, almost obliviously, around a corner ahead. "Son-of-a-bitch's goin' to the Freeway," he remarked, though Ty knew exactly what the turn before them led to.

"Central," Ty called in, his voice breathy from the recent scare; "suspect is now headed west on 19th towards the Freeway. Where's our backup?" 

Their beams instantly illumined green, federal thoroughfare signs as they themselves turned the corner, pronouncing the onramps that gave easy access to the highway traversing the street. Oddly, 19th street was peppered with a moderate amount of traffic -all businessmen heading for the freeway, no doubt-- and Bosco struggled to weave in and out of the fast-traveling automobiles.

"55-David, backup is on its way." 

The snow was picking up at the moment, fiercely glazing the cruiser as it fell in ruthless magnitude, and hindering Bosco's view considerably. Vivid white scalded from the freeway above, headlights heralding the express traffic that raced along the overpass. The truck in question was undeterred by the clogged street, and managed to adeptly skirt in and out of the congestion as if it took no effort at all.

Enveloped in a heavy, edgy anger, Bosco found his jaw clenched severely, his heart racing and then nearly breaking at the awareness of the compromised child. Tears threatened to scald his vision once more and his stomach flipped violently, but he struggled against his rage and pushed the RMP to speed even faster. 

When he caught the bastard, there would be Hell to pay...

* * *

Kurt Bitterman continued hugging the left lane, even though the unspoken highway etiquette was 'trucks to the right'. He wasn't in a hurry, but the cars that inundated the freeway were either speeding along in the left lane, or sluggishly crawling in the right. He preferred to spend as little time as possible traveling through New York City, and did his best to keep up with the minivan in front of him. His large dump truck was new and well taken care of, and didn't protest at the speed, even though he hauled over a ton of gravel, dirt, and sand in its bed. The load of earth would become useful when delivered, and was to be sent out to cover the snow that was presently coating the city, ironically. 

Oldies music blared from his radio, pealing around the cozy cab with a cheerful rendition of the ever-popular 'Mrs. Robinson'. He found himself singing along to Simon and Garfunkel, bobbling his head and tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the familiar tune. Snow slapped against his windshield as he drove along, but hailing from Maine, he knew how to drive in bad weather and wasn't bothered in the least bit. In fact, his mind was far from the ruthless blizzard outside, but instead focused on thoughts of his wife back home. She would be snuggled up with a good book right now, a favorite pastime of hers...

Abruptly and unexpectedly, the wheel jerked out of his hands, veering the bulky truck to the left and into the oncoming lane of traffic.

"Oh God!" he screeched as he wrestled the steering wheel out of the vicious curve, easing on the brake as he slid across the first of two lanes. Past them, the steel of the guardrail taunted him with its inadequate barrier, and then the black of the void beyond it. "God help me!"

Horns blared, cars squealed and groaned with the sudden pressure of brakes being applied, but all he could hear was the grinding of his own vehicle as it took a hard left towards the metal railing that lined the overpass. 

* * *

Ty blinked, his mouth falling open as his breath abandoned his lungs. The sight before him burned his vision, deadened his reflexes, and surged nausea throughout his tensed body. His eyes struggled to take in what he was seeing as his mind simultaneously begged to forget. 

"Bosco!" he heard himself scream, his fingernails digging deeply into whatever they encountered. "Look out!"

* * *

To Be Continued... So...? I'd love to hear what you all think!

_"Save Tonight" is by Eagle-Eye Cherry_


	5. Gravity

**Human After All**

Gravity

.

A/N: So sorry for the delay, all - I meant to have this finished and posted long ago. As always, you have been the BEST readers ever and I appreciate all of the support so very much! Thank you!!

Now, without further ado... the good stuff.

* * *

Time had played a joke, had slowed itself to an incomprehensible crawl as it etched a malicious version of reality. Seconds perverted into long hours, edging deliberately by while mocking viewers with a horrific stage show of monumental proportions. Witnesses suffered the intense weight of an impending catastrophe settling into their bodies, crushing all belief in reality and deftly sieving air from lungs. Churning clouds only added to the sight, spelling out the wrath of God and discharging a furious whiteout to hinder sight and complicate matters further. 

Of the hundreds of eyes that witnessed the tragedy develop, none were as sickeningly shocked as the two staring out the window of the large dump truck. Of the many spontaneous shrieks of panic that chorused around rapidly, none were as horror-struck as the one emitting from the cab. 

His view of the cataclysm was clear and abysmal, and Kurt Bitterman found his heart literally stopping while he watched the events sadistically unfold. His hands, callused and worn from years of hard labor, clutched onto the cooled leather of the steering wheel with inhuman strength as he struggled to disregard what he was beholding. 

Reaction effortlessly overcame reason and safety, and a heavy foot was applied to the brake, deadlocking the squealing tires as he silently begged the uncontrollable tonnage to comply with his with demands. But the unspoken plea was to no avail, and his hasty recklessness only served to send the truck spinning right into a massive slick of ice. Tires fought valiantly to grip, but instead made the situation worse by sliding along the sleek surface. The intensity of the sudden centrifugal force sent the back end of the truck into a dangerous fishtail, while the domineering bumper insisted on making a clean, clear path to his certain doom as it pushed cars unceremoniously away as though they were mere toys. 

A harsh wind howled viciously, all but drowning out the shrieks of metal grinding and clashing as the substantial vehicle slid perilously across one lane...and then another. The discordant clamor of the metal fender breaking through the guardrail was chilling, but slighted by his terrified screams.

Oblivion, stretched out as the cruel drop-off beyond the flimsy rails, beckoned the heavy truck into its depths with assistance from natural force. Gravity saw fit to follow along, cruelly allowing the vehicle to plunge over the side and off of the asphalt thoroughfare... 

...Right into traffic below. 

* * *

His cobalt blue eyes burned fiercely, stunned body attempting to absorb and believe what played out before him. For Bosco, there was no sound to accompany the devastating images, just the bitter and deafening silence of sheer dread and shock. The sluggishness of passing time ought to have permitted the actuality of it all to sink in, but it was all entirely too much, and his breath, along with his reflexes, left him without a glance back. 

_No, this isn't happening, _ his thoughts screamed vainly. However, reality promptly crushed his foolish denial with a myriad of verifications. 

The overpass, only a second before glittering cheerfully with the glint of many headlights, was now a screaming mess of angry, red brake lights and raucously flying metal. Car after car after car smashed and crashed into the one ahead, the sadistic skidding of the vehicles suggesting a strong desperation to avoid the metal monster that threatened to end all and bring assured death. 

Bosco could do naught but watch in morbid fascination as the thoroughly unrestrained truck took a wicked turn towards the edge of the overpass, its cab spitefully threatening to hurtle into his lane...into him.

"Shit!" he heard someone cry, obviously terrified, but the barely audible voice was far-off and distant. "Oh my God!"

He himself would have voiced something similar if the cruelly disjointed state of his body would have permitted it, but every nerve was deadened beyond his control, leaving him feeling strangely disconnected and numb. The next second served up another heaping helping of torturous imagery, these even more frightening and atrocious then the preceding, emblazoning the next chapter of the drama with wicked glee. 

Ultimately, Time righted itself and allowed natural speed to resume, intimidating him and all eyewitnesses with its callous sense of humor and melodramatic version of the Apocalypse. 

_Oh God, help me! _ he mentally sobbed -- pleading, begging. _I don't want to die! _

Metaphorically, it was as though a bomb had gone off, ruthlessly barraging the highway before him with steel, glass, and human beings as it exploded into a brutish fury of pandemonium. Wild, frightened shouts and the irritating screech of gnashing metal peppered the air with resonant confusion, adding a strident, unrelenting soundtrack to the performance as it sang out a mournful dirge of death. Participants in the impromptu scene acted their parts out flawlessly; creating chaotic drama that was second to none. 

The direness transpiring before him instantly stole his breath and the grave magnitude of the moment won precedence over his thoughts, drawing uncomprehending panic and horror to mind. 

_God, no..._

Recent events and long-gone memories tugged at the edge of his consciousness, suggesting the dreadful cliché of his 'life flashing before him'. If it were so, he'd be dead within moments, he was sure. The thought was too much for him to bear and his harshly constricted chest managed to tighten even more, cutting off all air. 

_Please..._

He heard his name being called out -- by his frantic partner, he assumed -- but he was far too intent on avoiding a collision with the soaring truck to pay heed. 

Against all good judgment, he wrenched the wheel to the left, knowing full well that his futile efforts to evade impact would never do.

* * *

Ty slammed deep into his seat, vainly pushing himself a few measly inches away from the horror that was sure to strike them at any moment. Evasion could never be accomplished in such a circumstance, but the will and instinct to survive was strong and listened to no reason. 

Shock settled in as outright disavowal, evicting every other emotion. Perhaps it was all a bad dream, this upheaval of natural laws, this deplorable animation of sights and sounds. Logic would suggest its erroneousness, for the young officer had never seen such a thing, and his wits were intent on questioning its legitimacy. The dramatic display was an amazing and intense unrealism, he was sure - something Hollywood would deem a praiseworthy action sequence.

The next moment assured him of the genuineness of it all, though, with a bombardment of compiled highlights that were fit to behold. 

His equally startled partner saw fit to haul the cruiser to their immediate left -- trying at all costs to avoid a head-on collision, but only succeeding to spin the squad out of control. The fantastic sense of vertigo stemming from the instantaneous change of direction was shattered and then heightened by a swift crash and jerk from behind as the car following them mercilessly crushed their rear bumper and pushed them forward -- right into the predictable path of the ominous truck. 

_Oh my God! _ his mind shrieked along with his involuntary, panic-stricken cries. _No! _

All that not withstanding, the unwieldy truck was completely airborne now and pummeling downward, racing directly towards them with astounding speed, headlights glaring back at him defiantly as they locked on their target. Closer and closer it fell, spawning a surreal indifference to settle into his body, until Ty could make out the driver clearly. The man's features were crossed with a miscellany of fear, panic, astonishment, and incredulity -- a mirror of his own face, he was sure. 

His heart sank, throwing his stomach violently into his throat. 

This was it. This was how he was to die -- a freak accident.

He had barely time to brace himself before the hood of the squad car erupted, and Ty felt himself being ruthlessly yanked and jerked around, the harsh movements barely discernable as a vicious somersault. Bitterly cold air assaulted exposed skin as windows shattered, and simultaneously, his face was brutally slapped by the discharging airbag. A horrified, sobbing yelp of pain and terror resounding from beside him was obliterated by the braying crack of his head snapping back, and then his own agonized cry. 

In an instant, it was altogether over for him, and he was immersed into an inclusive obscurity that was surpassed by none.

* * *

The world exploded into vivid color, igniting a million sparks as the cab of the truck touched down. It nailed its intention dead center, and the hood of the police cruiser instantly doubled in half on impact. The force of the collision threw the chary vehicle into the air and then venomously spun it so that it flipped end-over-end, side-over-side, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. 

Glass shattered vociferously, an infinite number of tiny pieces spraying in all directions as they broke and scattered from the mother pane, burying themselves deeply into anything and everything that they came in contact with, tattooing flesh with their bitterly sharp edges and ruthless insistency. Metal bent and warped into peculiar designs, caring not what it ripped and shredded in the process, unsympathetically thrusting anything and everything to the side -- inanimate objects and human beings alike.

Yet the prime horror of the unnerving scene was the pitching and heaving dump truck, whose sadistic course of action was hardly over. After mutilating the squad car that unintentionally moved into its angered path, it proceeded to rebound off the pavement into an aggressive revolution, flying through the air once more. The marred police car took a similar route, and while airborne, it spun not once, but three times before slamming into the unyielding asphalt with brutal assertion. Laws of nature had no trouble toying with kismet, and settled on flinging the beleaguered RMP a good distance, skidding it foot after foot on its topside. 

All the while, the boulevard beneath the onramp erupted into a competitive state, rivaling the action overhead with it's own outstanding display of mayhem and a worthy compilation of atrocious torture. 

A monstrous pileup was rapidly assembled, as nearly every car that traversed the road was thrown into the horrific mix without a second thought. The epitome of the ordeal was emphasized by the demise of the dump truck -- which had miraculously come out of the nightmare just about completely upright -- and as it decelerated to a halt, it threatened to give way, tipping precariously. Rocking slightly on two wheels, its carriage declined to support its weight and groaned in defeat as it conceded to fall over. 

The cruiser, still sliding hideously on its roof, sent glowing embers flying along the street as metal against rock triggered an irate montage of brilliant sparks. Finally, after an extensively long moment of belligerent sliding and slewing, it slowed to an inert rest - in the shadow of the tilting truck.

For one, fleeting second, it was as though the world held its breath, waiting and watching in shock and repulsion to see the finale of the drama, the closing moments that promised to be of unearthly proportions. Onlookers gasped in awe as the author of the terror elected to have a bit more fun, giving free rein to the perilous leaning of the stressed, massive vehicle, and allowing it to tip over. 

God might have had a hand in the perfect placement of the lumbering truck, as it missed the prone police car by mere inches when it came to rest on its side, but he appeared to relinquish his power to permit the heavy, industrial covering of the truck's bed to tear off easily and dispel the hauled load with no qualms. The RMP, holding the two officers, was instantly buried beneath the shipment of dirt and sand, the pitiless burden not relenting in its unloading until all of the cruiser was covered -- save the back bumper and taillights. And if that weren't enough, the menacing collisions of cars that were incapable of stopping rammed the beaten squad car time and again, firmly pressing it deep into the loose earth. 

Ultimately, the remaining, itinerant traffic on both routes were given enough warning and the shocked drivers were able to brake in time, though there was no hope for the scads of automobiles that already made up the vast amasses of twisted metal. 

All at once, the sickening animation came to an end, but the effects would be lasting and a clear reminder of the abysmal events that disfigured the once peaceful roadways. 

* * *

"Bundle up, New York! Tonight's goin' to be a nasty one!" chirped the announcer, his tone suggesting a mirth that annoyed Jimmy to the nth degree. Of course, the weather guy would be all warm and cozy in his studio, his gleeful warnings never to apply to himself. If he only knew how the men and women of the emergency services would have to force themselves out into the cold to protect the city and offer aid, he'd have shut up a long time ago. 

"Well, there's the understatement of the year..." Billy Walsh scoffed, looking up from his cereal bowl to glare at the imposing radio. His playful smirk betrayed the exasperated look, however, and suggested an amusement in the more-then-obvious broadcast. 

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed, shaking his head while displaying his jovial dimples, "tell me about it..."

"Temperatures are expected to plummet into the double-digit negative numbers as the storm moves through the city. Brrrr! Makes me cold just thinking about it! Winds of-"

Jimmy, who could take no more of the incessantly cheerful meteorologist, turned the radio off with a swift flick if his wrist. "Thanks, Bob," he mimicked the galling voice perfectly, drawing a pleased laugh from his cohort, "but I'd rather not know..."

Walsh nodded his approval and put his hands together in a prayerful position, puppy-dog eyes begging the heavens. "Please, Lord," he articulated slowly and reverently, "I'm asking you as a friend... No more calls tonight, okay?"

This time, it was Jimmy who let out a chuckle. Walsh looked for all the world as though he were making a deal with the Almighty, buddy-to-buddy. "Let's hope he hears you, man..." 

A quick glance out the window was enough to make him want to send up a prayer himself -- the climate outside was undesirable at best. Snow and negative temperatures were bad enough, but coupled with the howling winds and brutally flung ice, the weather was nearly unbearable. The last place on earth he wished to be was out in that squall, which, according to Bob, the trusty weatherman, was only gong to get worse as the night rolled on.

Unfortunately, his partner's entreaty was sent up a few seconds too late, and the screaming sirens of an incoming call broke the mood, dispelling all humor. Like clockwork, the ceiling above became alive with the pounding of footsteps as the rest of the troop suited up, causing the overhead light to flicker unsteadily. 

"Hey! I thought we had a deal!" Walsh moaned, throwing up his hands in mock exasperation. Jimmy could tell that he was less then thrilled at the prospect of venturing out, as was he. Nevertheless, both firefighters hurried to be on their way - as the familiar rush that the job provided was an addicting and craved sensation. 

"Probably just a fender-bender. We'll be back in no time," Jimmy murmured to himself as he tugged on his heavy FDNY overcoat. 

Fate smiled slyly at his assumption. 

* * *

"Ma'am? Ma'am, you'll have to calm down - I can barely understand you..." 

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and squeezing his eyes shut, Larry nearly groaned in frustration when the woman's hysterical cries only intensified at his attempt to pacify her. He knew, as senior dispatcher, that crying could only serve to worsen a situation - especially something that was potentially life-or-death. His gut feeling was that this call was a really bad one, and from the extent of her hysteria, he could easily deduce the gravity of the case. As he was trained, he continued to push the caller for information as to when, where, and what had happened -- before the circumstances took a turn for the worse. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the young dispatcher next to him answer another call, and then the one to his right. He frowned, but allotted the increased amount of incoming emergencies to the hazardous storm moving in. 

"Ma'am, what happened?" he tried again, suddenly feeling a bit ill at ease. "We're gonna get you help, but I need to know where you are and what happened..."

It was only when the entire board lit with unanswered cries for help, did his stomach twist into a knot. Something big had just gone down...and judging by the fully illuminated board, it was something really bad.

He swallowed at the nervous lump constricting his throat and persisted to plead with the sobbing woman for answers. "Ma'am, please...Calm down, it's okay...I need to know--"

Abruptly, Larry paused his questioning, listening intently as the frantic sobs morphed into a grave description of what exactly had just transpired. He could only hope that the poor woman was exaggerating, but the slew of calls phoned in confirmed her rather severe descriptions. 

Intensely disturbed, his mouth fell open in alarm, pen scribbling vital information onto a worn pad with insatiable haste, free hand reaching for the 'crisis' button. A quick call to his supervisor, the precinct Captain, would make the 'code red' official, but for right now his judgment ruled. 

* * *

The halls were redolent of antiseptic and stale coffee, but fortunately, after years of regular familiarity, the pungent odor ceased to bother him. Shifting his bulk, he leaned against the admittance counter of the hospital and pulled a chunky black book out of his pocket. The blankness of an unfilled report glared back at him, promising a few mind-numbing minutes of writing, but he was undeterred in his course of action.

"Mary," he spoke to the head RN without looking up from his task, as he was in a hurry to get back out on the streets to aid in the search for the missing child. "You'll sign this for me?"

"Um-hmm," she mumbled around the pen between her teeth as she bustled around the desk, her hands full of files and paperwork - observably busy. 

"Thanks."

His pen filled next line out, victim's name and address, time of call, etc. Routine, definitely, yet this time Sully found himself glancing repeatedly up at the trauma room that held the raped woman, nervous for some uncanny reason. The woman would be okay, or at least the doctors thought so, but an innate sense of disquiet was burning the back of his mind, suggesting that something was dreadfully amiss besides the kidnapped little girl. 

He took a quick look at his watch, noting the three-quarters of an hour that had passed since he and his rookie partner had arrived at the crime scene -- the last time he'd seen or heard from Ty. He'd turned his radio down to almost completely muted while attending to the vic -- for her sake - and hadn't heard a thing from 55-David since he'd returned it to regular volume. Almost as soon he'd turned it back up, however, he had regretted it, for the airwaves were buzzing with excited prattle concerning a traffic incident that was pretty serious -- judging by the amount of concerned relaying going on. 

A quick radio in to Central in regards to Bosco and Ty's location would confirm or deny his misgivings. However, the anomalous nausea building in his stomach caused him to dread any such call.

After a few queasy seconds of silently debating his successive action, he persuaded himself to forgo fears, choosing to be competent and not pay heed to his worrywart side. "55-Charlie to Central. Could you give me the status of 55-David?"

A long moment of unnerving static rang out before he was returned with a brusque voice, "Charlie, due to the amount of activity on the frequency, we haven't been able to make contact with David for the last half hour. Standby, and I'll get back to you if I hear something." 

For some reason, the logical explanation for the lost communication refused to appease Sully at all, and intuition and a peculiar partner's sixth sense struck him hard, insinuating that something was dreadfully wrong. He frowned, sucking in a deep breath to placate his tightened chest, and returned to hastily scratching out paperwork. Even then, his readiness to finish had barely completed half of the amount rendered. 

Every so often, a putrid stench would waft in, stinging his senses with the recognizable aroma of "eau de _toilet_" -- as the unpleasant smell of human waste was commonly referred to in his field. 

Gusler, who had returned from a jaunt to the restroom, stood to his partner's right, hands on his hips, as though trying to play the part of a completely capable officer who was used to handling the horror of rape cases. Unfortunately for his charade, his big eyes held a sad defeat, and his lip couldn't help but be uneasily nibbled between teeth. 

After a few seconds of gazing around the ER, the young kid noticed the pungent stench and wrinkled his nose disgustedly. "What's that smell?" he whispered under his breath, as though he were a bit sheepish to voice his curiosity. 

His low question wasn't lost to a passing med student, who nodded to a nearby curtain as he tugged off his soiled latex gloves. "Exam 3, hobo verses brewski... The beer won." 

Proctor let out a soft titter at the droll phrasing and winked at Sully as she took the forms from him, signing the bottom lines of the report in her neat, feminine handwriting. 

"Oh... So he, uh...?"

"Messed himself? Yeah - to put it lightly." The student --whose young face looked positively aged from lack of sleep-- half-smiled as he answered, and then walked off in search of caffeine, no doubt. 

The rookie raised his brow and nodded after him, seemingly satisfied with the information. He then stuffed his hands inside his coat pockets and sighed, glancing up at Sully, a strange look playing across his face as he took in the expression warping his supervising officer's. 

"You okay?" Gusler asked quietly, as if the senior officer were the one who needed comfort, rather then his perceptibly shaken self. If it'd been earlier that day, Sully might have sniped back at him, but the kid had instinctively sensed the deep-seated emotion that was currently wreaking havoc on his consciousness, and the concerned words were almost comforting. 

"Yeah...I'm okay," Sully murmured, glancing out the glass doors of the ER and into the night, searching for answers, though a chillingly dark emptiness and wind-driven snow were all he was granted. "Let's go."

Try as he might, he couldn't rid himself of the vicious feeling of dread that swelled within him; couldn't exonerate the growing alarm that whispered disaster and tragedy in his ear as a nightmarish presage of things to come.

* * *

An aghast hush settled about the area, effortlessly smothering out any and all sounds with unadulterated awe. For a long moment, the spine-chillingly ethereal silence refused to be broken, as though an indistinguishable power deliberately held back the expected sounds of terror and anguish to fully display the atrocity that had been compiled. 

Then all hell broke loose. 

A small sedan abruptly exploded into flame, sending a mushroom of smoke and fire barreling high into the sky while engulfing the innocuous vehicle in a roaring conflagration. The blast sent a pulse of heat and sound, and the intense illumination was eerily reflected off the chaotic mass of twisted metal, shining through the icy flakes that whipped through the air. 

Straight away, the strong sent of gasoline was present as it leaked from punctured tanks, not stolen away with the wind but instead lingering in every nostril as a terrorizing threat. The sub-zero air was instantaneously pervaded with shrieks and screams for help, cries of trepidation and fear, and strident sobs of grief as panic set heavily in - the full weight of the predicament hitting home to the numerous people still conscious. 

Whereas a few people were unscathed enough to attempt to escape their damaged vehicles, many were not so fortunate. Hands attacked glass, slapping against unbroken windows as the occupants of a few cars became hysterical and struggled to free themselves from the metal monstrosity. Still others suffered an even greater imperil, unconscious and slumped in their seats, entirely unaware of the dangerous predicament that they had been thrown into.

As if planned and timed to bring about the most horror to its audience, another explosion rocked the scene, the car adjacent to the blaze unexpectedly surmounted by the spiteful flames. 

* * *

"All stations be advised -- Send any and all available units to 19th and the freeway. Multiple MVA and reports of a major pileup. EMS and fire respond."

Lieutenant Johnson's judicious face slackened with concern. A pileup was one thing, but a call put out to surrounding stations was as serious as it was uncommon. The last time such an edict had reached his ears had been over three years before -- and the day he'd lost two of his best men to one of the worst fires in Manhattan. 

Choosing to push the dire memories to the side, he concentrated on encouraging his men, turning around partway to address the firefighters seated behind him. "You hear that, boys?" he nodded to them stoically, his mouth firming into an apprehensive line. "This's a big one... Keep your heads and stay safe out there, okay? You know what you're doin'..."

"Sure we do, Lieu," DK called back, amidst the nods and grunts of agreement. "Well...all of us 'cept Jimmy, here." He winked good-naturedly as he elbowed Walsh; referring an incident that took place the previous week when, in a large fire and thick smoke, Jimmy had mistook a life-like doll for a baby and attempted to rescue it. The experienced firefighter had realized his mistake almost immediately, but not before DK had seen his amusing blunder, and the guys were hell-bent on never letting him live it down. 

Fortunately, Jimmy could take it as well as he could dish it, and any of the jousting banter was always met by an equally witty rejoinder. Today, conversely, the somber, staid expression crossing his Lieutenant's face was enough to squelch any such retort, and he simply half-smiled and ducked his head, not in the frame of mind to be joking around. "Yeah, yeah..." he waved them off halfheartedly, shaking his head.

"Engine-57, call in your ETA," the radio blared tersely, suggesting the urgency of their arrival on the scene. 

"Two minutes out, Central." 

Abruptly, the back of the fire truck was encased in a mask of apprehensive silence, and seasoned eyes declined to reach another, each of the men solemnly slipping into their characteristic and respective mindsets. Fortitude, valor, determination, and compassion drove their easygoing faces into the resolute look of a firefighter, their emotions and wills into the gentle strength and stamina that made them exceptional. 

The front cab was equally quiet; Johnson's bowed gaze reflecting his prayerful stance and the innate dread that was welling in his body. He could only pray and hope to God that his men would stay out of harm's way, that the call as not as serious as pronounced, that the storm would prove to be of no added danger. But deep within he knew...

Lurching to a halt, the hulking fire engine pulled as close as possible to the destruction, finding a place to park at the beginning of the now crowded-beyond-belief overpass. The breathtaking view was hindered somewhat by the resilient blizzard, but one could plainly distinguish the multitude of wrecked cars, the broken guardrails, and the accretion of distorted metal below. Live flames clawed and chewed at a portion of the madness, devouring the frames of two cars in its formidable jaws and casting an uncanny glow about as a striking contrast to the falling snow. 

Reacting normally and wholly unprepared for a sight so beggaring description, Jimmy jumped out of the truck, heavy boots loudly crunching against snow. Artic air hit him instantly, burning and cutting, but was not what caught and stole his breath. 

The display before him commanded astonishment and horror, and he stood utterly stunned for a long moment, his deep brown eyes fighting to take it all in. His constricted throat barely permitted an involuntary sigh of awe and a soft whisper to be lost in the lashing wind. 

"Oh my God..."

* * *

To Be Continued... 


	6. The Dark Side Of The Moon

**Human After All**

The Dark Side of the Moon

.

A/N: Ah, yes, it has been a while... But I'm back now, and here is the latest piece of drama ;) Thank you all for being so very encouraging with your reviews - every single last one makes my day! Hope you all enjoy this!

* * *

Caught off-guard by disaster so indescribable, Lieutenant Johnson's eyes scanned the panorama slowly, purposely letting the staggering images brand his brain and cringing inwardly as each and every aspect pierced his vision. Undeniably, this was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, the devastation well beyond anything he'd had to deal with hitherto. 

Dark, fuel-induced smoke billowed thickly from the swell of distorted metal in pungent surges, muffed screams scratched at his ears, and the sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh and plastic were each a deciding part of a violent assault on all of his senses. Yet, all of the overwhelming distress and magnitude barley began to sink in, even after a few long moments dragged by. Unconsciously, he felt his fingers curl tightly against his palm, his heartbeat a provoked pulsation surging through his fist. 

This was too much. He was inadequate. His crew - completely insufficient.

Strikingly, these thoughts had never before run though the Lieutenant's head, had never had the gall to make themselves known. But now they had a body - legs to stand on, a mouth that roared destruction and fury - and were unfortunately so utterly true that it frightened him.

Smoke stung at his eyes, a familiar sensation, tearing them up a bit as they took in and simultaneously assessed the devastation around and below. His thoroughly humbled gaze lingered on the overturned eighteen-wheeler, perverted almost unrecognizably from the deadly nose-dive, the broken guardrails dangling just feet above its metal side, the heaps of dirt and sand spilled from its belly - a sight to behold indeed. The grievous mass of wreckage accounted for the majority of the catastrophe, but was not the worst to be seen. A few cars had been tossed, it seemed, over on their backs - only to be slammed and smashed, impacted by other vehicles into the most contorted of shapes. Thriving flames ate away at the feast, eyeing its next course as it licked its lips in pleasure. 

A cursory guess, made from years of experience, sited the number of totaled cars in the high thirties, but a closer reckon would demand a higher tally, and would suggest an excessive body count. He found himself frowning in stupefaction as he speculated vainly as to exactly where they were supposed to start. The blazing cars below just might win prescience, but then again, they might need to begin with pulling the helpless multitudes from their constricted and unyielding prisons. The severity of it all fully warranted the thick dread and staggering inadequacy that pulsed along with his surging adrenaline. 

"Lieu?"

The concerned voice brought him from his somewhat dazed assessment, to the face of one of his finest. A sort of shell-shocked miasma had glazed over his eyes, though after years, Jimmy had become quite a good actor, attaining the art of masking his feelings to get the job done, and was, at the moment, doing his best to keep up appearances. He never had really been very readable, as far as his fear-value went, but now justifiably looked thoroughly alarmed.

Johnson ran a gloved hand down his face, nearly pinching himself to verify the actuality of it all. Closing his eyes, deftly blocking out the horror and dismay, he allowed one more prolonged moment to elapse, this time laden heavily with desperate prayers. God always had a hand in everything, he supposed, and this time they needed all the help they could get. 

He quickly cleared his constricted throat, leveling his gaze and setting his mouth in a resolute line. Finding his voice unearthed his momentarily lost confidence and proficient poise, and sent assurance through his small band of men. "Alright, boys, let's do this."

* * *

Snow and ice garnished the windshield in a harsh fashion, now whipping into the glass instead of the previously willowy fall. The second hand of his wristwatch was loud against the silence, clicking each instant out unhurriedly. If he'd noticed the dissonant hush, he might have made an effort to squelch it with an offhanded comment or question, but he was far away in his thoughts, his mind whirling and reeling after the latest radio announcement. 

Perhaps the direness and magnitude conveyed was an exaggeration, an over-precaution due to the tempest gathering force - the department did tend to lean that way in extreme weather situations. Yes, maybe that was it...

His unconvinced mind strained to reconcile his doubts, but only managed to send a disquieted shiver up and down his spine. 

Something was wrong, and it was scaring him half to death.

"Clear, sir," broke in Gusler's hesitant voice, referring to the desolate intersection and green streetlight illuminating their path. The roadways ahead were outwardly deserted, but as the cruiser drew nearer to their destination, the howls of numerous emergency sirens lit the air as a foreshadowing of the calamity to come, taunting their senses with hideous shrikes. 

Sully took a deep breath and eased into the intersection, grimacing slightly in anticipation. Years and years of experience prepared him for just about anything, and even then he had no idea where the profound feelings of uneasiness and alarm had derived from, but they were there, nonetheless. 

Nerves of steel - that's what a fellow officer had once dubbed him. And it suited him, too. Sully had earned the manly title after skillfully retaining his composure during an extravagant gunfight. Realistically, he'd been with three rookies that hadn't been able to see through his mask of equanimity, and was actually scared as hell. Still, he sported the 'been there, done that' attitude as part of his manner, choosing to retain some of the respect he'd earned, as off-beam as it may be. 

He was, on the other hand, never wide of the mark when it came to bad feelings, particularly concerning his partner - almost as though he had an internal 'trouble-o-meter'. 

Red flags were flying now, his gut instincts flaring and screaming, and he couldn't help but wonder about the welfare of young Davis. Riding with Bosco would most definitely bring on a multitude of dangerous circumstances, for the impetuous and brash officer could never run a day without a small bit of drama. This unconscious reminder did nothing for his nerves, and displayed its consequence as a firm thrust on the accelerator. 

Intuitively knowing full well that something was dreadfully amiss, Sully could only hope against hope that he was wrong just this once. 

* * *

"What the hell is this?"

Kim declined to answer, not for lack of things to say, but rather the ability to say them. For a painfully long second, she allowed her mouth to fall open, and her pretty brow to crease in stunned worry. Only after Bobby had snapped out another frustrated and confused articulation, did she manage to speak.

"God, Bobby... What...?"

Her gray eyes, transfixed on the snow-covered street before them, barely made out a turn of her partner's head, the shocked expression crossing his handsome features that almost completely emulated her own. 

The road before them was literally a parking lot of emergency vehicles, all flashing their lights in urgency as they were forced to a dead halt, neatly spaced three wide and countless deep. Ceaselessly, the anomalous queue seemed to stretch on for miles, deceptively disappearing into the whiteout that smothered the city. The scene was surreal at best, jarring any false sense of security that their occupation meagerly offered. 

This was the real deal. 

Bobby slowed their own lumbering vehicle to a smooth stop, edging into the outskirts of the gridlock, finding a place between a police cruiser and a fellow ambulance. He shook his head in perplexed unease, taking a moment to fully grasp the unusual and frightening situation as his eyes skipped and flitted around, endeavoring to absorb it all. According to Dispatch, the accident was another two full blocks ahead. The mere thought of such clogging extending that far was amazing and alarming, all the same. 

"Okay..." he whispered to himself, finding the word escaping his mouth before he even thought of it. Though he knew that the sight his eyes were taking in was indeed real, it had an incredibly fictitious quality to it - everything so comparable to an episode of "The Twilight Zone" that he half expected the eerie music to start up. 

At that time, reflexes kicked in, and he felt the familiar burden of concerned, protective sensitivity settle into his chest - no doubt stemming from his childhood position of family head and caregiver. Kim, as well as many close friends alike, had always chided him on his empathetically maternal side, and he usually made an effort to suppress the nagging twinge to appear more 'conservatively masculine' and less 'motherly'. This time, on the other hand, he found himself swallowed in instinctual consternation, holding long breaths and digging his fingers nervously into the steering wheel. 

"This's bad... Really bad," Kim spoke once more, each word emphasized by her inflectionless and blunt tone.

Bobby could do naught but silently agree.

* * *

Experience bred caution, but no amount of prudence could hold back his feet. Boots, old and well-worn, slapped against the pavement, his breathing rapid and in tune with the hurried pace. 

Only a few minutes before, the Lieu's first orders had made themselves know, however trivial they may have seemed due to the sheer scale of the calamity at hand. Though fully willing to comply, Jimmy had found himself hesitating markedly before obeying the brusque demands, internally struggling to remain completely collected and vigilant. 

Reality quickly got him over himself. 

Taking a few steps forward, he let his gaze roam, deciding immediately where help was needed most, and then hurriedly searching out a path to the lower-level damage. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted his peers scrambling to remove the heavy hoses from the truck. On a normal day, Jimmy might have played up his "macho man" persona by insisting on manning the hoses, but today he was shaken to the core and was intent only on aiding the hordes of victims. 

Running parallel to the accident, he made his way towards what he thought could be a softer slope to the concrete walls bordering the road below. Still, even at the gentlest section of the gradient, the angle was significant and would surely be a hindering factor in the rescue efforts to come.

Without a second thought, he slid down the cement incline on his backside, looking as clumsy as he felt. There really was no way to slide down gracefully, though, he supposed. Ten feet of relative free falling later, his boots connected with the hood of a bashed up Chevy that was crushed against the wall, resonating with a deep thud. He must have startled the occupant inside, for a shocked squeal erupted from beneath him.

Not wanting to scare said person any further, he dropped to his belly on the cold roof and peered into the cracked driver's side window. A frightened set of blue eyes gaped back at him, dripping tears down their owner's face. She was about his age, not more then thirty, he quickly assumed, and wasn't seriously hurt from the looks of things. His presence only seemed to intensify her tears, and she slapped both of her bloodied hands against the cold window glass, pleading with him. The cracks in the window absorbed her blood, creating the strangest of designs on the fractured pane. 

"Help me!" she sobbed, on the verge of hysteria. 

"Miss? Someone will be along real soon to get you out. I have to go help some other people, but I'll make sure you're helped as soon as possible, okay?"

Though his reply felt pathetically unconvincing, there really was no time for consolation - no matter how much he wished to placate her. The heat of the nearby fire was enough of a restraint to send him bouncing back up onto his feet and then down onto the ground.

Fighting to maintain his mental strength, he willed himself to ignore the resonating sounds that grated intensely on every nerve. Helpless moans, shrikes, and cries embedded into his consciousness, manifesting utmost pain and panic. But unless the fire was put out quickly, there would be much bigger problems to be concerned about, and the death toll could skyrocket out of control. 

He noted that that the handful of firefighters present were doing their best to extinguish the conflagration, but it had become a living entity, chewing and spitting its wrath at being disturbed. 

In all of his years of being a firefighter, he'd never really experienced the sense of how ineffectual he truly was. Now he knew. He was pathetic, put in his place by the substantial situation, and realized that, with the small group of emergency responders there at the moment, it was ludicrous to even think that they could handle this. 

In spite of the grim outlook, nonetheless, he went into autopilot, mechanically moving towards the fire's next target and its inhabitant - a car situated precariously only a mere feet from the unbridled inferno. 

It had to be done, he figured, and he was the man to do it. 

"Hey! Get back!" a firefighter from another precinct shouted at him as he passed, waving a gloved hand as if to shoo him away to safety. "You want to get yourself killed?" 

"I have a job to do." 

His impulsive statement was as much of a surprise to himself as it was to the other fellow, who simply nodded after throwing him another concerned glare. Mentally, Jimmy realized that he must have a death wish, but continued on, unperturbed. Luckily for him, he'd never really had a sense of fear, and took all things in stride - as another notch in his belt. 

This notch, he decided quickly, would have to be a pretty big one.

* * *

"Holy shit... How the hell are we supposed ta'...?"

The rest of Carlos' exclamation was lost to Doc, partially from the excessive wind thrashing his ears, and partially because the magnitude of the situation was commanding all of his senses. He was quite sure, though, that whatever his partner had to say was of no great importance right then, and was spoken from downright astonishment. 

Abandoning their bus, Doc swung the heavy meds bag over a shoulder and made a beeline towards what he assumed would become the central hub of emergency services. A single fire truck and a couple of police cruisers had already arrived, and were parked in a sort of semi-circle off to the side. Their owners and crew were trying their best to look in control - but doing a rather poor job of it. 

Doc wove around a few flustered cops after spotting Johnson, stepping adroitly over the flat, unfilled hoses crisscrossing the ground. He wondered briefly as to why they weren't in use, but lent that to the fact that nothing seemed to be going smoothly at the moment. 

As he drew closer, he noted the outwardly detached look on his boss' face. The Lieutenant's deep smile lines were unseated by worried furrows in his brow, his mouth hung slightly agape, breath a heavy fog, spaced as though he were breathing deeply to retain or find his characteristic sang-froid. Although his perspicacious eyes repeatedly scanned and rescanned the premises, they almost didn't seem to see. 

"Where do you want us, Lieu?"

Doc's innocuous question seemed to light an unfamiliar spark of panic in his supervisor, as though he were out of his league and knew it. Johnson was never out of his league - that's what made him the best. That's what made him a good leader.

In an unconscious show of his own support, the veteran paramedic tilted his chin up a fraction and stared right in Johnson's eye, letting him know he was confident in his abilities. 

"Doc, I don't know where to put you right yet," Lieu stated honestly while shaking his head, knowing that humility went hand-in hand with headship. "See where you're needed most, but stay away from those cars down there - they look about ready to blow."

"Yes, sir," Doc nodded firmly, making sure to crack a weak smile to substantiate his competency. 

The small gesture must have done what was intended, for Johnson instantly straightened and looked appreciative for the vote of confidence. Doc, however, felt almost as though he were being mendacious, for the only thing running though his head then, was how thankful he was that he wasn't in charge of the mess.

Quickly walking away, he got his first head-on look at what they were up against and was instantaneously daunted. The feelings of inadequacy seemed to be contagious. 

"You think we can actually put a dent in this?" Carlos hissed from behind, voicing a very real concern. For once, Doc actually sided with the young and habitually tactless rookie, sincerely doubting the amount of help that they would be able to provide. 

"We're gonna have to." 

* * *

Pacing back and forth could do nobody any good, but was somehow strangely comforting. For the umpteenth time that hour, Larry's feet were inclined to stop their rhythmic steps in front of the massive screen before him. A frown crossed his features and his gaze, once again, flitted from one end of the map to the other. 

The wall-sized monitor displayed a current map of the city, highlighted with bright red and blue markers with assigned letters and numbers. Blue 55G was 55-George; red E57 was Engine 57 and so forth. Every minute on the minute, the diagram was refreshed to show the up-to-date information and whereabouts of each vehicle, insuring that all were where they were supposed to be. At present, there was a massive blurb of color and numbers, indicating the backlog of emergency vehicles surrounding New York City's latest act of mayhem. As of then, the freeway pileup was responsible for nearly a third of all of his staff, clearly displaying the level of disaster. 

He had full faith in his men, however his mind wasn't actually on the accident at all, but rather on the location of 55-David. Their marker was stationary, still placed at the rape case, a few blocks from the freeway. He had been alerted to the loss of radio contact, that they had been chasing a rape and kidnapping suspect at the time of their last call-in, and the fact that they hadn't been heard from in more than an hour. This was as grave as it was rare, and it was becoming increasingly alarming as the seconds ticked by. 

Acting sagaciously, he had assigned Audrey, a veteran dispatcher, to try and regain contact with the unresponsive officers, and she was to inform him as soon as she did. Just to be safe, two other squads were assigned to search the surrounding vicinity. 

He should have been focusing on massive pileup, coordinating the rescue efforts and such, but could not get the uneasiness and growing anxiety to leave him be.

Giving in to his managerial apprehension, he cleared his throat. "Audrey?" 

The dismal shake of her head sent a tremor down his spine. "Nothing, sir... But there's so much on the airwaves right now - nobody's getting much through." She shrugged and blinked perplexedly, offering him a shadow of a smile. "Maybe they think it best to stay quiet and let the important things get said..."

Even she sounded disbelieving of her own words. Officers of the 55 did not just drop off the map. This was more serious then her simple explanation.

* * *

The closer he drew to the fire, consequently, the less he could see. Jimmy wiped at his burning eyes to stay their watering and smarting - but his effort was to no avail. Whereas a moment ago his footing had been in snow and dirt, his careful footsteps now splashed in inches of spilt gasoline. This only strengthened his resolve, for the person trapped nearest to the blaze was in dire need of help, due the alarming amount of the flammable liquid oozing all around. 

Because the crashed cars were so compacted together, Jimmy had to crawl over a couple to get to where he felt he was needed most. It was traversing the hood of the second vehicle that he felt a familiar current of air hit his skin, and heard a soft sucking sound. 

Instinctually, he threw himself as low as possible, flattening his body to the hood, knowing full well what always followed the two deadly sensations. 

In a flash, his world ignited violent white, and an unseen force pressed him down even further. Heaving his arms up, he covered his face to shield off the angry flare and held his breath in fear. The heat was extreme, scalding his exposed skin and leaving him breathless in its wake. But it was not the discomfort that left him cringing. 

Another car had exploded, he realized, and it was only a matter of time before the rest followed.

* * *

His fingers flexed and un-flexed restively - an old habit and a sure sign of his insecurity and troubled thoughts. If the job had taught him one thing, it was that keeping your head in every situation was the way to go. Impetuosity could get you nothing but trouble, and on-the-spot discretion saved more lives then not. 

Second nature ruled his movements once more, and found Bobby rubbing his hand across the back of his neck in agitation. Here, he and Kim were faced with a choice. Either stay with the bus and find a way around the congestion, or infringe protocol, leave it, and make their way to the site on-foot - possibly obstructing further rescue efforts with the abandoned ambulance. 

Impulse reared its ugly head and trounced out any deliberation. 

"We're wasting time. Lets' go," he decided, opening the door of the cab and preparing to step out into the night. He hesitated, though, when the outside elements were let in. Adding to the oddness of the situation was the lack of noise - sirens eerily silent and any talking kept in low tones.

He glanced back uncertainly at his partner for her take on the matter. Though he'd been able to mentally slip into a somewhat-collected mindset, Kim, conversely, looked rather thrown, still trying to digest the confusion of the moment, her gray eyes darting back and forth from his face to the road ahead. 

For a moment, their eyes locked and neither one blinked, each trying to read the other. A tangible fear loomed in the air, radiating from their motionless forms like body heat. But fear was an old foe, and they were both old hand at pushing it aside to get done what needed to be done. 

Keeping her apprehension at bay, Kim nodded and conjured up a watery smile, satisfying Bobby's pronouncement with her apparent support. Not a word was spoken further as they worked quickly, fishing out the desired paraphernalia and then closing up their ambulance.

Their exit was met by the sound of resounding slams of numerous doors cutting the still of night with discordant ease, and the oddness of the moment took a turn for the worse, slipping easily into just plain surreal. 

Without warning or indication, the gridlock had rapidly been converted into a silent exodus as medical and fire personnel forsook their vehicles to trek through the falling snow. 

Though all of it was very disturbing and all too real, Bobby found himself in denial of the sight, mentally wishing that this nightmare were indeed just another sci-fi episode fabricated in his dreams. 

* * *

Even though the room buzzed with activity and sang with sound, Lieutenant Swersky seemed to pay no heed. The news of the pileup had reached his ears not long ago and had worried him a bit, but he'd seen his fair share of 'calamity' and was confident that the latest problem would be solved no later than the end of his shift. 

Dispatch had pulled a large chunk of his force to respond to the incident, but to that point, there had been no request for a supervising officer on site. Therefore, in the interim, he made himself useful by answering phones and conducting his remaining men to the other mishaps and crimes littering his precinct. He'd spent many a night just the same way - everything very old hat, as far as he was concerned. 

"Sir?"

A rookie officer stood to his left, hovering over his shoulder. Swersky frowned at the discourtesy, but raised his brow, waiting to know what he'd been interrupted for. 

"You have a call on line three."

"Thank you," he replied as he grabbed the nearest phone and punched the correct button. "Fifty-Fifth precinct, Lieutenant Swersky."

"Joe? It's Larry..."

Swersky's face instantaneously revamped, his countenance wilting from the placidness that had mirrored his equanimity, to a tense look of concern. 

Hailing from the same squad since they'd been rookies in the force, Larry Sewell and he had known each other for ages. While Swersky had chosen to ascend the ranks to lieutenant, Larry opted for a quieter and less-stressful position as Head of Dispatch. Still good friends, barbeques and the occasional after-hour drink kept them in touch. Most people might have been glad to receive a call from an old buddy, but the Lieutenant knew that - at work - a call from Larry only meant that there was something wrong with one or more of his men.

"Larry, what's going on?"

A pause lit the line. "We, uh, lost contact with one of your RMPs about an hour ago, and haven't been able to regain it so far. I have--" Larry's voice, though trying to, was weak in conveying his hopefulness. But hope could not erase fact: The last time a squad had gone missing, it had turned up in the river with two dead cops in it. 

The tense look splaying across his face deepened considerably with the bad news, and Swersky broke in, declining to hear the rest of his explanation, "Who is it? What squad?" 

"55-David, Officers Davis and Boscorelli."

Immediately, his fist slammed into his desk, banging his displeasure. Not only had he known that afternoon that putting those two together would be trouble, but he was well aware that Bosco had a way of finding the worst possible circumstances happen upon. 

"Son-of-a-bitch..." he whispered. 

* * *

The small blast had sent a surge of bleakness through the assemblage of firefighters and paramedics alike, forcing them all to stop for a moment and rethink their own mortality. 

As sickened dread settled artlessly into his stomach, Johnson noted to fairly awed looks plastered on his comrades' faces. Though none of them were overwhelmed, any previous confidence had vanished and was replaced by a newfound respect.

The flames were high and hot, and even from a distance, scorching his bare flesh with glee. While thoroughly deferential of their opponent, there was no way in hell that he wasn't going to be the victor. 

His mind began a whirlwind of stratagems; all of witch immediately took second place when he realized that the scene below had a new curveball to fling his way. 

Bellowing like a hungry beast, the smoke coughed out a familiar figure, stooped over slightly as he obviously begged for breath. Showing, once again, how well he played his part in the graying of his Lieutenant's hair, Jimmy stumbled away from the flames and made his way up the easement slowly, smothering his compulsory choking with a gloved hand. Apparently, he hadn't been wearing a mask. 

Johnson fought off the urge to lecture, and instead ran over to inquire about his health. "Jimmy! You alright?"

Brown eyes shone bright against the black soot covering his face, but Jimmy's expression was less then cheery. "Yeah...fine..." he gasped, still trying to find the breath he'd lost. 

"Okay. How long until we have it out?" Johnson inquired, his voice well-nigh toneless with discouragement. 

"Lieu, it's not..." Jimmy shook his head and sighed, pausing to wipe his face of sweat. The perspiration seemed incongruous and disturbing in he sub-zero night air. "Too much gas..."

"Yeah, I know," the Lieutenant replied straightforwardly, confirming his understanding of the deadly hitch.

This was a major concern, needless to say, in each and every vehicular accident - fuel always played a big part. Every single vehicle was automatically thought of as a ticking time bomb, a fuse just waiting - wanting - to blow. Caution was key, but in this case, it really had to be thrown to the wind. There was too much at stake - too many innocent people ensnared and dying. 

Working the emergency service had its moments - the times where death seemed inevitable for someone. Unfortunately, this time was no exception. Even so, every man there had a choice - he didn't have to risk his life. It came down to willpower and resolution, character and courage, and none of the many faces working around the lieutenant appeared ready to back down. Seeing their determination to succeed, he couldn't have been prouder.

This was what made these men heroes.

But there were heavier things on his mind. The flames below taunted him as they danced in his eyes, menacingly delighted to take someone down. Their worst enemy was putting up a great fight, and Johnson was veteran enough to know that it would take no prisoners. Swallowing hard, he nodded at no one in particular and patted Jimmy on the back. "You sit out for a few minutes, okay? Run down and see if that pumper has extra foam."

Jimmy moved to take off, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder and a low command. 

"And, Doherty...?" 

"Yeah?"

"Get a priest down here." 

* * *

To Be Continued... 

For all of those wondering about our two friends... They will be making an appearance in the next chapter. Please tell me what you thought of this one!! 


	7. Cold Metal Coffin

**Human After All**

Cold Metal Coffin

.

A/N: Thank you all for every wonderful review, and for the helpful comments and thoughts. Your opinions mean so much to me, and really drive me to write better! Hopefully, life will not get so much in the way and I will be able to update more frequently. Until then, here is the next chapter!

_Joey, you are so great! Your intuitiveness helps me more then you know!_

**Warning:** Contains graphic material.

* * *

"Get me the backboard..."

"Doc..." Carlos shook his head, his tone more or less reproving, as though informing his mentor of the stupidity of his request.

"I said, GET THE DAMN BACKBOARD!"

Sucking in a deep breath of frustration, Carlos felt his eyes narrow defiantly at the strident order. Doc had no business yelling at him, because this time he was right to question the senior paramedic's intentions. On the other hand, the tone of voice used was not one to argue with, suggesting that Doc was on one of his missions once again and would not be crossed.

He stood abruptly from the low crouch he'd been squatting in and spun around to snatch up the desired equipment. If Doc wanted to waste time, so be it. 

Still scowling, Carlos shoved the orange plastic panel into the waiting hands, and stole another good look at the injured party, completely miffed as to why they were even bothering. 

Besides the exorbitant amounts of blood varnishing the entire interior of the wrecked car, there was the unmistakable mush of brain matter spattered on the shattered windshield, mirroring the large gash splitting the victim's scalp. The driver had obviously been without a seatbelt upon impact, and now lay half out of his seat, sprawled across the dash. When they'd first arrived, the man had had a weak pulse, but the beat had long-since extinguished, indicative of another fatality. 

On any other day, Doc just might have black-tagged him and moved on, but Carlos had noted a strange change in his partner's eyes since they'd arrived on the scene. It was almost a guilty passion, as if he was overwhelmed by the devastation and needed to do everything possible to repair the disaster and reinstate or retain his competency.

"C-collar." 

One-word commands were as degrading as they were irritating. Whenever Doc would resort to such turn of phrase, Carlos felt like he were a first-day rookie all over again - not deserving of his hard-earned medicinal respect. 

The ring-shaped collar was passed in fractious silence and Doc snapped it on carefully, demonstrating that he truly believed the doomed man had a chance. As he raised the body into a more upright position, there was no doubt that it was a hopeless case -- the man was clearly injured beyond conceivable repair. 

"Doc, seriously... C'mon, he's gone." Carlos inwardly cringed at the anticipated onslaught of harsh denigration, but was surprised when his partner conceded, sighed deeply, and slowly sank back on his haunches. 

"Okay," was all he said, nodding his head in saddened defeat. 

The reaction was as uncharacteristic as it was unexpected, seeing that Doc's pride usually refused to back down. But strangely, Carlos felt no triumph or satisfaction in his rightness. Instead, he felt sick to his stomach.

Striving to keep the man he most admired buoyant, he did the unthinkable and turned the tables, letting Doc be the one 'giving the orders' once more, "Okay, you said it," he agreed, feigning his wholehearted tone. "Let's move on." 

Self-importance took sloppy seconds to his newfound integrity, as he was only concerned with the welfare of his partner. He paused, nodding his head as though the idea had been Doc's all along, "Good call."

He let out a soft sigh of relief when a familiar spark of determination lit in Doc's eyes.

* * *

Though the wind-driven snow slapped his face, Sully appeared to pay no heed as he strode forward, his face set into hard, disconcerted lines. Automatically, his fingers reached for the microphone at his shoulder, but stopped when he realized what the consequences of the proposed movement might be.

If he called in and informed Central of the encumbering traffic jam, he was more-than-sure that he and his young partner would be assigned to direct the congested intersection before them. 

To do so might take a while, though. A few angry people, who had the audacity to roll down their windows, yelled impatiently as they sporadically sounded their horns. They were obviously expecting, or rather demanding, that the two cops clear the junction so that they could be on their merry way. But the crushing feeling of urgency surging though Sully, drove him to forgo standard procedures in spite of the tongue-lashing that would most likely result. 

Beside him, Gusler shifted his lightweight frame from side-to-side, unintentionally mimicking his partner's concerned sway. 

"Get back in the car," Sully decided, turning his back on the job at hand.

Gusler cocked his head to the right and crossed his arms, hunching his shoulders a bit to shield off the wind. His perplexed expression did all the talking necessary, his right-out-of-the-textbook, rookie mind-set clearly getting the best of him. 

If Sully had seen that look once, he'd seen it a thousand times -- Davis had worn it until he'd worn it out. If he hadn't suddenly felt like hurling, he might have cracked a smile from the recollection. Instead, he took a breath and held it, restraining his unsettled stomach. 

Gusler must have read the look of dread in his partner's eyes, and wisely complied without further comment or question. 

Pulling the RMP out of the intersection, Sully's bleak outlook mirrored the inclement night - grim, dark, and roiling more and more fretfully as the minutes ticked by.

* * *

The deep obscurity enveloped him, thick and endless, only to be broken by a dull roar, and then unmitigated nothingness. The otherworldly quiet was somehow deafening, all noises conspicuously muffled by an unseen influence. Feelings and senses weren't operating properly, and the subliminal sensation of complete weightlessness coerced his incoherent mind into forgetting his body. 

The first few seconds of oblivion dissolved as he began to make out sounds that interspersed his subconscious with soft hisses and barely audible burbles. Ringing was what he made out next; a constant, relentless shrillness that made the earsplitting sirens that he heard every day seem like mere whispers. 

In this place, this indeterminate state that he had somehow voyaged to, Bosco gradually found his thoughts coming back, muddled and bewildered, confused and beginning to become upset. 

But as leisurely as his thought-process decided to come about, his body proved to be even more difficult and cruelly refused to provide him any sensations or answers as to where he was. Fighting for some form of control, his disoriented brain wracked madly for a solution or a recollection of any sort, but was provided nothing but hollow blankness.

_God, what kind of mess did I get myself into this time...?_ he inwardly groaned, trying to figure out just what kind of perp struggle he'd managed to take part in. For some reason, though, he was drawing a total blank. 

Soft, raspy sounds broke through the ongoing murmuring and shrill shrieking that seared through his head, grasping his full attention. He focused on it, fighting not to lose control of himself as a result of sheer fright. The rhythmic rasp, shallow and even, sounded strangely familiar - as if he'd heard such a noise before - although now he could not place it. His mind, however, was completely discombobulated, and lingered only a few seconds on the small distraction. 

A faint tingling caught his attention and he struggled to be au fait with where it was deriving from. However, the feeling could not be placed, and the slowly mounting sensation may well have been originating from anywhere - arms, legs, torso, or even his head. He had no way of knowing. 

Now he was thoroughly frustrated at this cruel prank, and he mentally cursed the instigator of the awful game. Sudden, aggravated tension washed over him, startling him as his mind finally realized that he did indeed have a body to go along with it. The tingling of before was intensifying at a rapid pace, and he struggled to make out what body parts were, at that point, nearly on fire. 

But as fate would have it, his frustration ultimately gave way to the panic that niggled at the back of his consciousness, and granted him a terrified rigidity in his assumed torso and throat. The pitilessness of the situation that he was being forced to undergo took great pains to remind him of his vulnerability by steadily thinning his breaths. Another fiery sensation ate up his chest, arduous and throbbing as it chewed. It took only a moment for his clearing mind to identify the vicious pain.

He didn't have enough air. He was suffocating. 

Manipulating his reactions, his body abruptly screamed to free itself and he attempted this by lifting his head --or what he assumed was his head-- but a searing pain halted his endeavor before he'd even moved a millimeter. The unanticipated spasm sent his eyes flying open in shock.

What the movement revealed, though, was worse than the preceding trauma, instantly instilling a raw terror in his aching body. 

Black.

_Oh my God... Oh my God...it's dark._

His greatest fear had trumped up the worst nightmare possible, sending him into an internal nosedive. Adrenaline instantly rocketed his heart rate sky-high and made him dizzy with panic as emotions ricocheted from one end of the spectrum to the other, attacking him with horrific agony. His wide, searching eyes begged to focus on something, anything -- but were only met with a whole lot of sinister void that was just as dark as his insensible slumber had been. This only served to confuse and disconcert him further, adding to the heavy, confounded distress that already rendered his chest so tight. 

Suddenly, everything came back to him, slamming into him like a freight train -- relentless and unpitying, it plowed right to his heart, stopping it harshly as he recalled what had only just transpired.

The dump truck... The overpass... The horrific scream of grinding metal as the out of control truck launched itself off the road and into their path... Trying vainly to steer the cruiser out of the way... Ty's startled scream...

_Ty._

He felt his heart leap into his throat as he remembered his friend. His tongue found his dry lips and ran over them in an effort to moisten, and he fought to take a deep enough breath to speak, but was only granted a small, strangled gasp instead. 

"Ty...?" he whispered, the one mere word taking nearly everything from his begging lungs. His chest felt so tight and heavy, ribs as if they were being pushed until they touched his backbone. 

The absolute silence that followed sickened him.

* * *

A forceful grunt escaped him as he wrestled with a bulky wrench, indicating the effort and energy behind his battle with the large bolt. Setting back on his heels, Jimmy glared at the stubborn chunk of metal for a second before resuming his efforts to loosen it. His hands burned severely from the cold, as they were nearly numb and vehemently protesting every movement of his digits, but he tried to ignore it as he worked.

Having a go with another common technique, he placed his foot atop the wrench and tried using his weight as leverage. Unfortunately, if anything had changed or shifted, it was minute and completely undetectable. 

"Dammit..."

His frustration was not unprecedented, nor was the direction it was intended towards, for it was not the stubborn bolt that heated his exasperation, but the person that had inadvertently threaded it incorrectly. Now it was as good as cemented to the fire truck, hindering the employment of another hose line.

Johnson was not going to be happy.

After his run-in with the fire raging below, the Lieutenant --attempting to keep him away from the smoke for at least a few minutes-- had sent him to obtain more firepower for their fight, but now he was not going to be able to provide it. Gritting his teeth, Jimmy gave the wrench one last push, simultaneously kicking at in an endeavor to use as much manipulation as possible. 

A shrill sound abruptly cut into his undertaking and his head snapped up, rapidly twisting around to see, but then freezing in shock. The noise that thrust itself into his ears instantly threw his stomach into his mouth and weakened his knees.

For a moment, his eyes closed in queasy recognition; his head lulling back as he swallowed repeatedly to quell his surging nausea. The very thing that could make the whole ordeal a bona fide nightmare had occurred, he realized. 

A baby's cry had suddenly swelled from the wreckage, shrill and helpless, momentarily arresting the hearts of all who heard. 

Without thinking, he sprang to his feet and took off running, letting the heavy wrench fall to the ground with a soft thud. He barely felt his feet as he ran, his thoughts wholly focused on helping -- on finding and rescuing the screaming child.

"Hey!" 

The Lieu's voice was loud, but muddled by his dread and shock. His hands, however, grabbing at Jimmy's shoulders, did not go disregarded. The Lieutenant spun him around to face him, questions ardent in his leveled gaze. 

"What the hell do you think-?"

Another piercing shriek interrupted his admonition, and registered its effect plainly on Johnson's features. His face crumpled into a heartbroken cringe, beset by a shaken intake of air. Fraught by the latest incursion on his emotions, the astute Lieutenant looked about ready to lose his composure.

Now fully compelled and distraught, Jimmy twisted away from his superior, "No...no, I have ta'..." 

The remainder of his hasty explanation as to why he was directly disobeying was lost as he took off again, silently praying that they made it to the child in time.

* * *

Besides the stale crunching of trodden snow and ice, there was pretty much no noise to speak of -- save the cackle of radios as Central Dispatch struggled to keep things operationally organized. Long looks were exchanged from one to another, the small band of medical personnel searching for consoling or reassurance of some sort. Instead, they found empty, hollow gazes staring back, eyes mute with fear of the unknown. 

Bobby, still questioning the veracity of the evening, trudged the last block of the unforeseen on-foot excursion without missing a beat of his harried pace. The soft slapping of the meds bag told him that his partner was no more then a step behind and uncommonly quiet --aside from her short breaths-- indicating her outright nonplus. 

In all of his years, he'd never seen anything anywhere near what his brain was trying to comprehend, and quite frankly, it was scaring him out of his wits. The procession of fire trucks and ambulances had indeed been backed up for the full two blocks, and now illuminated the shadowy sidewalks with bright flashes of red, white and blue. Most of the sirens had been silenced, but a few sang out an inharmonious and jarring hymn. 

The high-pitched wail of an approaching cruiser permeated the alleyway just ahead of him, and light bounced eerily off of the brick walls as it drew closer. Before he had time to think, he was stopped in his tracks when the hood of an RMP suddenly nosed out onto the sidewalk, nearly hitting him.

"Bobby!" Kim shrieked as she grabbed his arm from behind, frantically wrenching him back a foot or so. Even through his thick coat, he could feel the force of her grip shaking her fingers.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" he hissed, widened eyes staring into the obscure, dark windshield as he took a deep breath of relief.

But his momentary relief shattered as his already-nervous frame of mind took a turn for the worse, abruptly morphing into panicky anger. Intent on giving the reckless cop a piece of his mind, he furiously hit the hood with a fist and strode around the front, but was halted by the emergence of the driver.

Sully, appearing quite shaken himself, got out of the RMP and slammed the door behind him. His eyes were deeply set in fear, and his alarmed breathing determinable by heavy puffs of white integrating into the midnight air. "You okay?" he huffed, but his quasi-worried question seemed empty, as though he had much more cumbersome things on his mind. 

Noting the clearly upset expression plastered across Sully's face, Bobby merely nodded and swallowed hard, utterly taken aback. Whatever was bothering the senior officer was clearly wreaking havoc on his disposition, and without another word, Sully turned and started off towards the scene ahead. His young, rookie partner seemed as bewildered as Bobby felt, and simply shrugged his apology before trotting after him.

If it were any other night, Bobby might have been extremely confounded and upset. But that night had already lent him more strange and uncanny circumstances then he would wish to deal with in a lifetime, and incidentally, he was starting to expect no less.

* * *

He sat completely still for a long moment, his body too petrified to move a muscle. Breathing seemed to be too great a task, and he involuntarily held his breath until multicolored spots danced before him. In the previous few seconds, it had become very clear to him that he was confined in a very small space, bitterly cold metal forced down against his entire form, his face the only part of him that was not as good as crushed. The air in his tomb was thick and moist, and grinding, loose dirt found its way into his mouth and nose, leaving him even more confused. 

Fear had never been so real, so paralyzing. Blinking over and over again did not change the unfathomable darkness that he was shrouded in, nor did it do anything to stay his burning, searching eyes. When Bosco's mind finally registered his lack of air, hysteria took full-rein over his body and mind.

Short, panicked breaths cut into his mental hell, and he began wheezing compulsively as he started to hyperventilate. His fingers dug into whatever was beneath his hands, agonizingly begging for mercy. The darkness allowed no such clemency, and instead seemed to crush him further in its sharp talons.

Tears seared in his eyes, scalding hot and angry, and his heaving chest tightened ever so slightly with each weak intake of air, panic gripping him in a death-vice -- the invisible foe slowly strangling him.

Garroted, pleading gasps interspersed the loud, unforgiving pounding of his heartbeat, each of the dreadful sounds growing louder and more frantic, hashing his consciousness. Pain, though there and agonizingly white-hot, was pushed aside by his impassioned attempts to regulate his breathing. 

_Help...me..._

Becoming enervated from sheer shock and hyperventilation, he felt his strength waning, found himself lightheaded and nauseous. Warm, wet fluid seeped up his face, throwing him as he realized that he must be inverted, imprisoned upside-down. The comprehension of this only served to terrify him further, and his panic threatened to give way to claustrophobia, mounting in his chest is it forced out air. 

Begging, he struggled to respire over and over again, but his efforts seemed to be of no avail -- leaving him clutched in horrified agony. An adrenaline rush suddenly pushed his torturous pain to the limit, and he silently begged to be able to scream -- if only to let some of the excruciating pressure escape his lungs. All he was allowed, though, was a grating, frightened rasp that only just resembled a desperate whimper.

A tidal wave of torture seared over him, and his body became rigid in shock, pressing him harshly against the confinements of his cold, metal coffin. Again, his fingers gripped and twisted at anything they could find, and this time encountered soft fabric -- his partner's coat. 

_Davis... Help me..._

The subsequent whisper of gasps that permeated the air sounded nothing of what he intended and distraught him enough to warrant more tears. He attempted to draw a deep breath, but was instantly stopped by excruciating pain. The miserable whips of oxygen he was being permitted would have to suffice. 

_Someone help me..._

* * *

Making his way down to the entrapped baby had been unproblematic, though strenuous on his emotions. The cries were grating, chewing on his every nerve, clawing at his mental strength, and physically, the combination of the sub-zero air, whipping ice, and thick smoke was beginning to strain his body.

Once Jimmy had gotten down to the problem, he realized that the rescue was going to be as/or more complicated as the rest of the night was proving to be. Of course, when it rained it poured, and nothing had gone smoothly from the minute they'd arrived -- substantiating Murphy's Law with delight.

The car that now held their undivided attention had been crushed, literally from all sides, leaving little or no space to work. A flying vehicle, made very clear by the warped and compressed top, had obviously hit the roof, leaving undersized holes where there used to be windows. The mother was slouched in the driver's seat, her demise obvious by the sheer scale of her injuries. Shards of metal and broken glass were everywhere, creating a myriad of razor-sharp splinters, all ready and waiting to sink their teeth into flesh. But the worst component was the imminence of the fire, the slow creeping of the infernal flames. Their blistering presence made one thing very clear: if there was anything to be done, it would have to be done quickly. 

DK and another fellow firefighter were already attempting to gain access to the interior of the car, their faces set in resolution as they sited themselves into the most elective positions. The screams from within permeated the vicinity, but seemed to be slowly losing strength, waning ever so slightly with every tortured cry. 

"Jimmy, we're gonna peel the roof," DK advised him, hauling the Jaws up onto the crown of the car. The harsh sound of steel against steel resonated enough to smother out the baby's cries for a brief second, reliving their ears from the high-pitched wailing. 

Jimmy nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. The way the vehicle was situated, coupled with the rapidly approaching flames, made the normal mode of operation seem inappropriate. Peeling the roof would allow easy access to the backseat, but would take more time then they had. Right then it was a do-or-die situation, and the wrong move could end up with a death or worse. 

DK positioned the Jaws, ready to cut, but Jimmy waved him to stop. "No time for that! We need to get in through the window!" He pointed to the least-crushed hole in the car -- the back left window, now a mess of shattered glass and serrated metal.

Frowning in stupefaction, DK complied, lowering the heavy piece of equipment. "You want to crawl in?"

"Do we have a choice?" Jimmy tipped his head at the cantering inferno devouring its way towards them -- so hot that that the paint on the hood of the car had begun to peel back and blister. 

DK and the other firefighter took a long look, each shaking their heads when they realized that their colleague had a point. "Okay," they both agreed. 

"Let's see if we can get this roof to pop up a bit -- make this hole bigger," he decided, already sizing-up the hole to see if he, or one of the others, would be able to fit through. 

Squeezing into the small space between the mangled cars, he thrust his hands inside the window frame and placed his palms against the roof. DK and the other fireman took objective positions, ready to test their hastily concocted plan. Eyes locked for brief second, unspoken words of encouragement seeping from their gazes. 

"Okay, my count," Jimmy stated, bracing his arms and hands for the thrust of their lives. He begged his skin to ignore the heat slowly igniting his nerves, the boiling flames all-too close already and threatening scalding agony. "One...two...THREE!"

Groaning and grunting, the three men pushed and pulled with all of their might, straining to move the stubborn sheet metal even a few inches. Though his arms burned from the effort, Jimmy kept driving, using the psychological shock of the iniquitous circumstances to feed his strength. 

"C'mon!" DK lashed through his clenched jaw. As he pulled, he leaned back, digging his heels in and forcing his body backwards to assist in their struggle. The hood finally popped, giving way just a few precious inches, but DK was thrown off-balance, and ended up stumbling back a few feet. "God-dammit!" he screeched as the hot intensity behind him scalded any exposed skin.

"You okay?" Jimmy hollered as he climbed atop the hood of the neighboring car, preparing to slither his way into the backseat. DK waved him off, nodding as he readjusted his mask. They both knew there was no time for dithering -- the baby came first.

Because his bulky fire hat wouldn't fit through the allotted opening, Jimmy tossed it to DK and flattened himself onto his belly. It was then that he caught his fist glimpse of the infant, and when his breath caught in his throat. 

The tiny baby couldn't have been more then a few month old, and tightly packed into his car seat by the roof above. The scene was disheartening at best, and was only intensified as the agonized cries unexpectedly died away, leaving the car sadistically silent and the helpless baby deathly still. 

"God, no..." Jimmy choked in a harsh whisper.

* * *

Shouted orders, screams of panic, low groans of shifting metal, and the thunderous roar of the fire hoses rang out an unsettling dirge of death. The upsurge of sound became as disquieting as it was deafening, and Lieutenant Johnson found his jaw clenching tightly in consternation. 

Try as they may, their efforts were becoming increasingly unsuccessful, disheartening and frustrating all those involved as they struggled to put up decent fight. His paramedics seemed to be on top of things, but their world-weary expressions spelt their intimidation out clearly. A few body-laden stretchers had been passed out of the morass to be hurried to awaiting ambulances and they had managed to herd a group of 'green-tags', or less significantly injured people, off to safety. Nevertheless, their diligence was falling completely short of the needed aid, and this discouraging fact was becoming more and more painfully obvious. 

The worst part of the whole mess was the never-ending barrage of shake-ups and setbacks. Gasoline, combined with the rip-roaring inferno, stilted efforts considerably by gleefully feeding the fire that threatened to implode anything within reach of its hungrily licking tongue. As a result, the people trapped around the blaze were either frantically screaming for their freedom, or slumped in their seats in subjugation.

To make matters even worse, just seconds before the horrifically stomach-turning screams of the entrapped baby had abruptly ceased, sending a chill of anguished despair coursing though Johnson's mental state. The three firemen working to free the infant fought valiantly, struggling to ignore the flames searing and scorching at them, but their will was no match for the pain and their raw cries intermittently slashed through the tension-thick air like sharp razorblades.

His stomach begged to heave, to rid itself of sickened despondency, and his writhing heart rate kicked him harshly over and over. Instinct bade him to run down to the site and lend a hand, but he knew that, as the superintendent in charge of the whole lot, he was to stay clear of danger and continue conducting the present and incoming fleet of medical and fire personnel. He had been trained to rescue, to give in to human nature and help out another, and as a firefighter, those instincts had been heightened to a great extent. Now, completely inundated by the sense, he struggled inwardly to keep himself in check. 

The hardest part of his job was curbing the impulse, and was something he'd always struggled with, but this time proved to be the most frustrating and heartbreakingly taxing. 

"Johnson."

The familiarity of the voice pulled him from his deepening despair and prompted his attention. John Sullivan lumbered up behind him, his hands stuffed well into his coat pockets, a strange look playing his features. Concerned fervor, it almost looked like, with perhaps a spark of panic lighting in his deep-set eyes. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line, suggesting his uneasiness. A young man trailed him like a shadow, looking very wet behind the ears and in awe of his current surroundings as his eyes darted around, gulping in the sight.

"Sullivan," he acknowledged. Before he could say anything else, a movement caught his eye -- Walsh lugging out another much-needed hose. "Use that over there!" he directed, pointing down below to the worst of the flames. "And I want two men on that hose!"

"Sir," Walsh nodded deferentially as he passed.

"Johnson," Sully repeated, a little bit louder and more urgently, moving to stand before him, "have you seen Davis or Bosco?"

The abnormality of the inquiry halted his whirling thoughts for a moment, and he frowned. Although he was currently in command of the accident site, he was predominantly accountable for his men and other firefighters and paramedics. Keeping track of the police force was a low priority. Even so, as far as he was aware, the NYPD was staying back while they worked to restrain the fire below -- directing traffic and such. The two officers in question shouldn't and wouldn't have been anywhere near there. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"Davis and Bosco..." Sully reiterated, shifting his bulk from side to side -- clearly displaying his apprehension, though now he looked as though his stability depended on the outcome of the answer. "Have you seen them?"

"No..." Johnson shook his head. "Why?"

"They're missing." The impression of lack of concern in Sully's sober statement was unrepresentative, and conversely, his tone was flat from sheer emotion -- as was evidenced in his eyes, bright with unbridled fear. 

"And you think they're here?" Johnson asked, his gaze immediately reverting to the massive pileup below, as his innocent question was perceptively laced with 'or down there?'. 

From the way that Sully's shoulders slumped and his conceding silence, Johnson could tell the seasoned officer was thinking along the exact same lines.

* * *

Cold and wetted down, the massive pile slowly eroded and took on a different profile. It moved and shifted, grumbling like an upset stomach as it settled on and around its stolen hostage. The rains of water falling from the nearby hoses did their best to compact the pile of soil, forcing heavy pressure and weight to warp the dirt's initial looseness into an unyielding prison.

Because of the considerable disarray and devastation surrounding the spilt heap, it was the last thing at the scene that would command a closer look. Inconspicuous at best, the car earthed beneath showed only a small sign of its existence that was all-but naked to the unwary eye: an insignificant glint of metal peeking from within. 

But as the hour dragged on, corrosion aided as much as it hindered -- slowly revealing more of its ill-gotten gains while simultaneously packing the police cruiser in forcefully. Time sided with hindrance and ticked by without a care.

* * *

To Be Continued... As always, I love to hear your thoughts!


	8. Six Feet From The Edge

**Human After All**

Six Feet From The Edge

.

A/N: Once again, I cannot tell you all how much I have enjoyed your feedback - you all have been wonderful! I can only hope that I won't disappoint! 

What's more, I just want to let you all know that I will be leaving the country for the summer, so this will be the last update for a few months. I'm going to miss fanific terribly, and I am already anxious to read the new stories that will be posted while I'm gone! Keep up the good work, my friends, and have a lovely summer....

_Jo, what can I say -- you're a goddess._

**Warning:** Contains graphic material. 

.

* * *

_**Hold me now**_

I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking

That maybe six feet

Ain't so far down

* * *

.

Though Sully was considered somewhat of a peon in the pecking order, his deep-set eyes had witnessed atrocities that some of the higher-ranking officials would never even dream of seeing. Despite the fact that he preferred not to show the wear and tear of the job, the deep furrows in his brow and his unforthcoming, stultified gaze displayed each and every trial on his countenance. Rapes, murders, shootings -- they all eventually took a toll on those who dealt with them on a daily basis. Coping was never a problem, as beer and hard liquor were always available, waiting to drown out or, at the very least, dull the latest fiasco.

But today was poles apart from the norm. There would be no liquor hard enough to smother the images away, no level of drunkenness that could completely expunge what he was perceiving. 

It was by far the nastiest accident he'd ever laid eyes on. A vast sea of incoherent metal; a spitting, spiteful inferno; tens, maybe hundreds of people injured....

Sharp needles of slinging ice bit his cheeks, and he slowly ran a gloved hand down the length of his face. The initial dread of finding his partner somehow involved in the mess, had evolved into a surety. Davis could very well be down there, dead, or dying a slow death. He shuddered involuntarily. He needed to do something.

Sully's eyes roamed, but this time instead of drinking in the scene, they were searching, seeking out the dreaded familiarity of a cruiser. Though he found nothing, the lack of discovery did nothing to quell his nausea. If it was there, and he was now sure it was, it was buried under the mass of debris. 

"What do we do now?"

Gusler. 

Could the damn kid stop the godforsaken questions for at least a minute? Sully needed a minute to regain his bearings, to come up with a game-plan, to make sense of the thousands of spinning questions in his own head. The questions quickly morphed into a battle of the wills, conscience fighting impulse, together chanting away an internal mantra as each tried to win favor. 

_I should go down there...._

He frowned.

_No, protocol is protocol. Stay away; let the experienced, more capable firemen do the work. You'll only put yourself or others in danger if you go down there...._

Sully took a deep breath and sighed through his nose. Squinting against the snow, he stole a glance at Johnson, The Lieutenant, shouting orders as he imperviously directed the rescue efforts, was more-than-preoccupied, but still doing his very best to command an unrestrained situation. 

_But it's Ty. I can't just stand here. _

"Sir?"

Now Gusler was standing to Sully's right, leaning forward to fit into his eye line. The rookie looked as confused as ever, his upper lip curling to complement his knit brow. 

_I have this damn kid. _

Impulse whispered louder, providing an answer.

_I can leave him. I can pawn him off on Murphy. _

Sully's eyes flitted back and forth from Johnson, to Gusler, to the disruption around and below him. If there was a chance, as little as it may be, that Davis was in there, he was more than obligated to do anything and everything he could to find him. Sully refused to consider and alternative -- he would not lose another partner; break another death to Ty's mother; live through another unfathomable dark time. 

He knew what he had to do. Johnson would understand -- he'd have to.

* * *

"Jimmy, GO!"

He needed no further urging. Thrusting his body to the fore, he edged his way into the interior, each lunge pushing him forward inch by grueling inch. His ribs vehemently remonstrated every movement, literally popping and cracking as they traversed the metal threshold. Difficult and strenuous as it was, he really had no time to dwell on the surges of pain, or the sudden lack of air in the cavity. He blocked it out and forced himself to go on. 

And then he was stuck. 

His aching, exhausted arms pushed his body for the last time, and then refused to provide enough pressure. He hung, clenched so tightly in-between the jaws of the metal window that they seemed to gnaw at him. If it weren't for the baby to focus on, he'd have succumbed to instant claustrophobia. 

The baby. He was beautiful, innocent; full bow lips, long lashes resting against chubby cheeks, his angelic expression peaceful as though only asleep. So beautiful that he provoked tears to well up in the 55's 'toughest' firefighter's eyes. 

The thought of losing something so perfect, so pure to this monster was too much for Jimmy, and it grieved him dangerously, breaking him as he realized that, for once, he was not able. He was no longer in control, the hero, but was instead completely at the mercy of his archenemy: Fire. 

But he refused to lose. Straining, he reached out his right arm, extending it fully, ignoring the ardent pain in his torso at the unwelcome lack of support, gasping and wheezing as he strove intrepidly. 

The tips of his fingers stretched, reached, and missed the infant's seat by half-a-foot. Fearful frustration ate at him, tensing his body while adding to his suffering. 

"God, help me... Please..." he hissed. In spite of the fact that he wasn't a religious person, the prayer seemed appropriate, or strangely enough, necessary. 

From somewhere behind him, he heard DK issue another grunt of pain, his discomfort obvious by the profundity of the throaty groan. An ephemeral glance out the front window drove Jimmy onward, compelling him with the menace of death. The inferno was already gobbling up the front hood, maybe a mere foot from the windshield, and not much further from DK. He swallowed against dread, squirming and wriggling his torso to fit. 

Again, his outstretched hand fell short. A few more precious inches.... 

"Shhhhhit!" He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, until his head pounded with pressure. Tears streamed down his face, from fear or frustration, he did not know.

"Jimmy! God, Jimmy, hurry!"

The raw scream tore his heart in two, ripped his last thread of composure. He needn't turn to look to know that the flames had reached his brother.

* * *

Pain.

The pain was exquisite. 

Had he been in any more pain, he'd have been dead; had he been in any less, he'd have been screaming. But he was at a loss, held fast in-between screaming and death, every fiber of his being alive in shock. 

Years could have passed, for all he knew -- time only clocked by the furious thrashing of his heart. He could breathe, only just, and relished every morsel of air, only to regret it as he exhaled. His tautened chest punished the action again and again, a vicious cycle of cause and hideous effect. 

Straight away, Ty could tell that he'd been injured to the degree of incapacity, for at the least infraction of movement, he paid dearly. His arms and legs were surely broken in numerous places, though the pain was unapparent as to what and where. While his entire body was subjected to the unbearable torture, it was his abdomen that pained him the greatest and he instinctually knew that he was damaged internally. 

He cringed at the realization, rapidly becoming overwrought, but was not allotted even that much without punishment. Deep swelling in his face contorted the entire right side, inflaming his cheek until it seemed to press against his equally swollen brow. His eye was lost amongst the engorged skin, cinched shut and throbbing in protest. Converse of the fiery hot of inflammation, the left side of his face felt bitterly cold, harshly shoved up against something frozen. It became increasingly clear that he was severely compacted, or more likely crushed, into a human-shaped box, merciless metal pushing at every part of him.

He bit back a strangled cry of panic. 

Fathomless darkness only heightened every feeling, the lack of anything to concentrate on leaving him no choice but to focus on the intense pain. He could only lust for numbness.

He was going to die, and he knew it. It was only a matter of time before it would all become too much -- physically or mentally. He had no idea how long his ravaged body would hold out, but knew his shattered psyche wouldn't endure as long. 

His mother would be devastated, the loss of her only son another horrifying blow after the abrupt bereave of her husband. It wasn't fair -- life had already dealt her enough suffering. He could see her face; feel her black, choking grief. Anguish, for her heartache, tightened his throat, roused tears to sting under his lids. The knowledge of his impending end heaved his disposition, fraying and unraveling what small bit of composure he had left. 

And then he lost it. 

A muted sob ruptured through his upper body, escalating the torture, but by some means relieved a small bit of the emotional agony. Through his tears, he bitterly longed for reprieve, but dreaded dying more, altruistically thinking only of the heartache that would be left in the wake of his untimely death. 

Through the foggy depths of his grief, low murmurs seeped in, until he could clearly make out someone gasping and wheezing tormented half-sobs. Desperate fingers suddenly tugged and twisted at his left arm, pinching him through his layered clothing. His heart stopped.

His partner. He was not alone.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or regretful for the company. The stifled, panicked cries meant that Bosco was still alive, but living though the excruciating hell that he was being forced to endure. He wouldn't have wished it on anyone, and wondered if instant death would have been a better state for the man beside him.

By the way Bosco was hyperventilating, death seemed a kinder fate. 

Instinctually, he sought to calm him, and taking a shuddering breath, Ty exhaled slightly, sighing through the pain before he spoke, "Bosco...."

His voice was low and faint, his tongue numbed, and the word came out slurred, sluggish, dropping off at the end in anguish. He wondered if it was coherent or loud enough to reach his friend. 

The begging, suffering fingers momentarily ceased their grappling, only to grip down on his arm as though they would never let go. However, his partner's panic-stricken struggle for breath never wavered, each gasp hysterical and tragically short. 

He had hoped for a verbal reply, but the firm clutching of fingers would have to do, as it was plain that Bosco was not capable of anything else. The fleeting rapidness of his pain-ridden gasps was alarming enough to warrant another prompting on his part, and Ty wheezed out, "Jesus, Bos..." Again, his voice sounded alien, and he attempted to right the inaudibility of his awkward speech, taking in another treacherous breath, "...calm down."

The fingers tightened, shaking now, so much so that Ty could feel every quaking twitch through his thick coat. A moan erupted, just inches away from his ear, long and low, thick with affliction, but it had interrupted the gasps for a moment, quelling them before starting up once more. He was getting somewhere, he thought. 

"Breathe...." It was the obvious thing to say. 

If Bosco hadn't been rendered half-dead at the moment, he probably would have quipped back some snide comment. Conversely, he seemed to gag on the next clipped inhalation. 

His powerlessness made Ty's stomach turn violently. Bosco was invincible, untouchable -- the unlikely cornerstone of the Third Watch. Sure, they all teased him, laughed at his cockiness, made fun of his brashness and impetuosity, but their own way, they'd each been jealous of his confidence and assurance. He was a rock, unwavering. 

Now he was fallen, crushed, defeated, and pleading for his life in a mangled heap of perverted metal. It was so wrong it hurt.

"C'mon, man..." he whispered, fighting against the sudden urge to vomit. Each breath he took made it worse, and he knew that it wouldn't be long before he'd throw up. Talking made him forget his situation for a moment, even though it hurt like hell to do so. 

Another moan, wretched and pathetic. The gasps then retreated into a long rasp, the most pain-wracked noise that Ty had ever heard. He flinched involuntarily, struggling not to weep from unadulterated grief. 

This...everything -- it was too much to cope with. 

But though he couldn't stand to survive another second, he couldn't bear to die.

* * *

One step forward quickly turned into two steps back. He would endeavor once more, advancing a foot-length, only to be forced to draw back by the billowing flames.

And so they waltzed, forth and back, back and forth, again and again in perfect harmony -- a strange, mesmerizing dance. 

Doc and the fire. 

Carlos couldn't stop watching.

Not more than five minutes ago, without thinking --Carlos was sure-- his partner had lead them down into the rumbling bowels of the wreckage, weaving around and over masses of debris and remains, rushing to reach the focal point of everybody's attention. Though all heard the pitiful cries and now watched, it was _his_ partner that had volunteered their services. A move that was so very Doc -- Carlos could not have expected any less.

But the situation turned out to be a great deal worse then they'd thought initially -- fire and smoke so opaque and impenetrable that they could not get close enough, three daring firefighters who may well have to be rescued themselves, and a deafeningly silent infant. Completely hopeless seemed much too weak a term. 

Though he was fully convinced that if they turned back now they'd remain unharmed, versus staying and eventually frying, Carlos didn't have the heart or the energy to voice anything. He merely watched, one hand covering his mouth to filter out some of the smoke, the other resting atop his head, completely at a loss. 

Doc and the fire. 

Again. Backward and forward -- a disturbing, spellbinding dance. 

Never one to give up without a decent fight, Doc had his hands up, shielding his face, rocking back on his heels in between attempts. Intermittently, he'd hiss an obscenity, as though cursing would end the eerie one-step. His dance partner didn't seem to appreciate the contempt and suddenly lunged itself forward, spitting and growling spitefully. The burst of flames scorched his face, and Carlos recoiled, coughing and choking against the smoke filling his lungs like molten lead.

That was enough. 

He opened his mouth to call his partner back, but Doc took the hint. He was astute enough to not underestimate the wrath and capriciousness of the conflagration, and backpedaled rapidly until he was standing right beside Carlos, all the while never removing his angry, leveled gaze from his enemy.

"Let's get outta here..." Carlos suggested weakly, blinking the smoke out of his smarting eyes.

Even though his option was the easy, obvious choice, if there was one thing he knew about Doc, it was that the paramedic left no one behind. His proposal would not even register in Doc's brain, and this was evidenced by the never-wavering, defiant stare beaming from his partner's brown eyes. Doc's mind was whirling, finding a way, reevaluating every option until he came up with the one that would work. This was just one of the countless reasons that he was the best paramedic in the city and would always be admirable at what he did. 

Carlos, though thoroughly afraid for his life at the moment, could only revere and covet his mentor's determination and aptitude. As much as he dished on Doc's methods and mind-set, he secretly longed to have the same respect bestowed upon him. Often he wished that he had it in himself to be so unassailable, so selfless, so heroic. 

A raw cry punched them from within the inferno, instantly receiving the reaction it deserved. Both medics stiffened considerably before exchanging sideward glances. One look at Doc's face divulged to Carlos that his partner's intentions mirrored his own. Carlos wished to leave like he'd never wished before, but they were there and they would do this. 

It was then that he realized -- he did have it in himself. It was there all along.

* * *

Neither of the two let on that the enormous undertaking ahead of them fazed them in the least bit. Silence spilled no secrets, revealed no vulnerability, or in this case, exposed no shock-induced incompetence. Better to remain stolid than to appear incapable at a catastrophe such as this one, where they, and their composure, were needed more than ever. Remaining quiet wasn't difficult, however -- utter astonishment easily took care of that. 

Bobby barely thought as he walked, also numbed from the artic cold. The snowstorm's winds and snow had picked up considerably and was rapidly whirling into an incontrovertible whiteout, distorting everything and everyone under a hazy, lurid fog. Before too long it would be hard to see at all.

Kim made a beeline to their boss, her pace picking up with each step, keeping her head down and gaze ahead, as though refusing to fully look at the devastation for fear it would glare back. But she had other reasons: worry. 

"Lieu, where's Jimmy?"

Always the first words out of her mouth. Though he should have known that it was coming, Bobby fought back the customary rolling of his eyes, the soft sigh of disappointment -- this was not the time, nor the place. She never listened anyway, always so concerned about the welfare of her ex, despite the fact that she tried to tell him otherwise every day. She'd moved on, according to her -- however much her actions and expressions contradicted the notion.

"Kim..." Johnson's tone was discouraged at best, seamlessly matching the foreboding in his eyes that Bobby had sincerely hoped he had imagined. 

"Where is he?" Her eyes snapped and she took a daring step forward, nearly in their superior's face. 

Johnson's protracted hesitation was indicative of his nervous tension and devoted worry. The Lieutenant, though not much older than most of their crew, was a father figure to many of the guys, including Bobby. Always paternally concerned with the welfare of his squad, Johnson took the role on with ease, and his caring, respected competence had lead them though many a fire and fight. And though he strove to remain poised for the sake of his men, it was times like these that his fatherly apprehension came forth visibly as a clouding of his brilliant blue eyes, a consolidation of the lines in his face. 

Looking as though the very life had been drained out of him, their Lieutenant mutely nodded his head towards the inferno. "There's a..." His voice cracked audibly, and he swallowed and started anew, "There's a baby."

"No...."

Kim's pathetic whisper of a denial was as heart-wrenching as the situation. Though everything in him screamed not to look, Bobby's eyes reverted, searched, and hit upon precisely what they didn't want to see. 

It was worse than he thought. The flames --high, hot, and relentless-- chewing and tearing into a crushed vehicle. Two silhouettes of men, their black shadows an austere contrast against the intense white and orange light. Doc and Carlos stood a few meters off, waiting. And the worst of it: legs, a pair of boots protruding from the wreckage of a crushed car -- unmoving. 

Bobby knew Jimmy well enough to know that he wasn't one of the two men outside, but rather the owner of the lifeless appendages. His heart sank heavily.

Even though he was standing right next to him, Bobby barely noticed the Lieutenant hollering into his radio in a tone that suggested that this was the umpteenth time he'd told the firemen to, "Get the HELL out of there NOW!"

"Jimmy, why?" he heard Kim murmur, her voice flat, approximating her wilted expression.

Though Jimmy was regarded as family, a sort of prodigal brother to him, Bobby hated him intensely for doing this to Kim time after time, day in and day out. His recklessness and hero-like approach to firefighting wore her down with the constant threat of his self-assured bravado ending in death. Today was no different, and while Bobby was stricken with horror and the impulse to help save his friend, he found his resentment rising unstoppably. 

"Hey! We need those medics!" The shout echoed in his head, snatching his concentration for a moment. A couple of firemen were yelling at him and Kim as they dashed past, dragging a backboard through the snow as they headed down towards the wreckage. "Get over here!"

"Go on..." Johnson nodded, as he knew that there was nothing that the paramedic could do to further aid in the rescue failing below -- it was already over-staffed at the present, jeopardizing five valiant men's lives. But he received no reply. "Bobby, _now_!" he commanded loudly, lightly smacking the seemingly detached paramedic on the back. The gesture snapped Bobby from his stunned and riveted gaze, but didn't promote movement towards his awaiting task. And although a sudden compulsion to run down and help out overwhelmed him, he remained fixed, frozen. 

A myriad of old and new sights, smells, and sounds suddenly cascaded around him, igniting odious memories along with full-fledged dread. The cries for help, he'd heard them before aplenty. The sight of corpses littering the war zone, he'd dealt with enough to desensitize him thoroughly. But the smell, the smell that would never cease to strike fear in a body, was prevalent beyond anything he'd been subjected to. Gasoline. Blood. Burning rubber. Burning flesh.

And his brothers were down in the crux of it all. 

Aptly sensing the need for support, their insightful Lieutenant spoke gently, easing Bobby out of the inclination to bolt, "It's okay, we'll take care of them.... It's okay...." 

Lieu was saying the right words, yet their measured delivery lacked conviction.

Bobby licked his dry lips and stared his superior right in the eye before taking a few halting steps frontward, his long look silently holding Johnson to his hasty promise.

* * *

"Breathe."

It sounded so easy. If only it were.

Each intake was fire, each exhale a knife stab. His emotions ran haywire, building panic in his chest until he felt as though he would implode from the heaviness. Every last nerve in his body was lurid with arduous anguish, electrifying and deepening the pain until he thought he could withstand no more. The exertion it took just to breathe, to sustain his existence, was astronomical, and ironically, nearly killing him. Surely death had to be less painful....

"Easy, Bos...."

Ty seemed somewhat collected, even though Bosco could sense that every word he spoke took a great amount from him, and tortured his broken body drastically. His voice was raw, strangled, and slurred to almost no end, but he kept up the encouragement as though he weren't also in pure hell. 

"Easy...."

Blood seeped into his mouth from his throat, coppery and thick, and Bosco choked against the liquid, fighting to keep his airway clear -- fighting to remain alive no matter how excruciating it was. Dirt fell in little increments, dusting his face with gritty, wet earth, and niggling its way into his open mouth. He ached to spit it out, but couldn't seem to find the energy to do so. He could only just breathe as it was.

Hyperventilation. He knew why he could barely respire, why he couldn't catch his breath for the life of him, why his whole body was rigid from exertion. Trying to think his way out of the debilitating hyperventilation had simply left him gasping all the more, and his respirations had viciously become even more fleeting and shallow. 

Inhaling gurgled, exhaling rasped. The sounds of his existence had become the most appallingly hideous sounds that he'd ever heard, rapid and guttural and grating -- a mournful dirge of death. Revolted unreservedly, his stomach heaved, straining his body with rigorous convulsions.

"Bosco?"

His partner sounded panicked now, but not nearly as exceedingly as himself. Struggling against the vomit burning away his esophagus, he writhed and coughed, groaning against the urge, against the unbearable, severe pain. 

_Please.... _

"Bos...please...."

His partner's stifled, slurred begging devastated him further, as he recognized that his presence was as much a consolation to Ty, as Ty was to him. And he was unable to reciprocate the support. 

Bosco attempted to speak, but his teeth involuntarily began to chatter, repulsively grinding the loose dirt in his mouth. The infinite darkness seemed to bear down on him with each beat of his crazed heart, terrorizing his shattered frame of mind with ominous suffocation. Pitiably, his thoughts had become a mantra of pleading, _Help me, help me, help me...Oh God, someone help me...._

But he had to be there for his partner. Summoning all of the strength he could, he forced his heave-wracked body to cooperate for one solitary second, and took a long breath, moaning out the monosyllabic word, "Ty."

Although it was far from decipherable, and the one utterance took nearly everything from his writhing form, he took some comfort in knowing that he was still able to speak.

An extensive pause followed, as though Ty was shocked at the miserable response. Either that or he was unable to reply himself. Had he died? The thought welled even more panic, if possible, and lent way to a treacherous trembling in Bosco that rivaled a grand-mal seizure. 

The pain intensified until it was unfathomable, and he thought for sure he would be dead within the minute, but Fate would not have been so kind. She nefariously allowed him to convulse until his entire body was saturated in sweat, despite the sub-zero temperature. 

"Damn." The frustrated hiss was deliberate, and he knew that Ty could feel every erratic shudder of his incapacitated body. 

From nowhere, a renewed vigor found Bosco gasping in another mouthful of air, trying once again to speak, if only to choke on the words as they crossed his dry lips, "Can't...."

"Yes, you can...." Ty spoke softly, slowly, breathing through his own emotional and physical pain, sounding as if he were trying to persuade himself equally. "You...have to."

* * *

Running after the firemen, Bobby struggled to slip into a professional mindset. That was what he was supposed to do, at least in order to stave off nightmares and haunting images. If he refused to let the job get to him, it was possible that he could leave the scene only fairly scarred. It was always very hard to do so, and there were days when he seriously considered changing his profession, if only to remove himself somewhat from the atrocity that was the world.

Then again, this was what he did best, and however straining and taxing the job was, it was still what he was meant to do.

"Down here..." huffed the leading firefighter as they slipped and slid down the cement incline bordering the road below. "Got a young guy with a neck injury."

"Uh-huh..." he replied distractedly, captivated by the enormity of his current surrounding. His feet struck solid, flat ground -- about the only spot where the natural, asphalt bottom was seeable, as the new metal flooring was arranged and set a few feet higher and nearly wall-to-wall. 

He stole a moment to glance back up at Kim, his so-called 'motherly' side getting the best of him. Though she had busied herself with the care of a recently removed vic, she looked positively staggered, horrified, and lost. Not the competent paramedic that she daily endeavored to be, and certainly not the strong-willed woman that he knew.

"Hey, pal, look alive here!" 

Bobby raised his brow at the snapped articulation. The firemen were a good ten yards ahead, and staring at him, waiting for him to continue on. "Yeah," he called, hurrying to catch up. 

_Focus, Caffery, com'on...._

But as much as he wanted to keep his attention on the task he was undertaking, he could not help himself as his eyes roamed the premises, catching and then stopping to watch the battle being fought not two-hundred yards away. Doc, Carlos, Jimmy and who-knew-who-else were still there, doing their very best to rescue a trapped baby, though activity seemed to have ceased to nil. That could mean.... 

He forced himself not to think about it for a moment, to give the victim at hand a decent chance. "What've got?" he managed to call out, winding and twisting his way to the car where the firefighters had stopped. 

The driver's side door had been easily ripped away with the Jaws, exposing the contorted form of a young man, his head twisted towards him, though at an anomalous angle. His young face was stricken, etched with pain, azure eyes weeping tears that ran down and mingled with blood streaming from numerous cuts. His blond hair was matted with dark red, suggesting a serious head injury to go with the likelihood of a broken neck. 

"Looks like a broken neck -- didn't want to move him without one of you guys," murmured the older of the two firefighters, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. 

Bobby merely nodded and moved in, bringing the meds bag to set next to him. The injured young man watched his every step, his bottom lip quivering in pain, silently pleading for help. 

"Hey, buddy, I'm Bobby -- I'm gonna get you outta here," he started, the line rehearsed and reused but never more heartfelt then now. He was instantly overcome by the habituated feelings of protection, empathy, and sadness for his young patient and worked to remain in check of his emotions. "Gonna get you fixed right up, so we can move you, okay? What's your name?"

"Colin...." the young man rasped painfully, slowly closing his eyes. 

"Okay, Colin, just stay with me here..." Bobby reached around the backside of the Colin's neck, feeling for the anticipated swell of a break. His fingers were too numbed from the cold to feel much of anything, but he took it as a good sign, nonetheless. His main concern was extracting the young man without hurting him further, and by the way he was situated, Bobby knew that it wasn't going to be easy. But he had to work fast -- the cold night was hardhearted and unsympathetic, and would love to quickly depreciate his patient's condition. 

"You need help?" He felt a hand on his shoulder, a squeeze of assurance from a coworker who understood. 

Abruptly, a few distant, frantic shouts rang out from behind him, chilling him to his very bones. Closing his eyes for a brief second to compose himself, he took a deep breath, swallowing away his doubts and fears, trying desperately not to think about the possibility of losing a member of his family. 

"Yeah," he barely managed, "the C-collar and a few four-by-fours. Get the board ready and hand me my radio."

* * *

"Goddamn you, Sullivan," he hissed through clenched teeth. 

Outwardly he was frustrated, piqued at the lack of conformity, but Lieutenant Johnson knew that restraining the senior officer was out of the question. Years ago, he himself had been put in a similar situation and had reacted likewise. His fellow squad member had been trapped in a burning building, and responding naturally, he didn't think twice about breaking regulation to run in and save him. It was only years later, when he had his own squad of men, did he understand why his boss had chastised him thoroughly afterwards. 

Though the Captain was proud and more-than-thankful for the heroic rescue, Johnson had brashly risked his own life, and others -- completely compromising further efforts for a long while. There were reasons for the rules.

Staring at the officer, determination reeking from his persevering pace, Johnson's face softened sympathetically, and he shook his head as he whispered, "God help you..."

* * *

Tormented and beset by DK's agonized cries, Jimmy gave it his all, his damndest -- not caring if he killed himself in the process. 

Gathering every last bit of potency from his disobliging muscles, he drove himself home, ignoring the loud crack of a snapping rib, disregarding the intense heat suddenly inciting his world, paying no heed to the lack of oxygen that made him wheeze strenuously. 

The sickening stench of burning hair and flesh rapidly clogged his nose as the iniquitous flames callously consumed the dead woman in the front seat, but his intent never wavered, his determination never vacillated.

At long last, he slipped the rest of the way into the back seat, and his fingers reached what they pursued -- the soft body of the baby. He nearly wept from sheer relief, but there was no time for that. Summoning an almost super-human strength, he reached into the infant seat and tore at the heavy restraints. They popped easily, much to his surprise, and he hastened to grab up the tiny little guy. The baby felt lifeless in his strapping arms, quivering from the recent exertion, and he hugged the little body to him as though he'd never let go. 

"DK! I got him!" Jimmy yelled as loudly as he could, but the smoke in his lungs muted his voice into a jarring croak. "Get us out of here!"

He was rewarded with unforgiving, unbounded silence. He couldn't see though the thick black smoke, couldn't hear over the roar of the fire, and suddenly felt very alone.

* * *

To Be Continued...  
  
_"One Breath" is by Creed _


	9. Gambling

**Human After All**

Gambling

A/N: Yes, it's true -- I'm back from the dead! I had a great summer and hope you all did as well! I will be trying to catch up what I missed out on in regards to all of the new and updated fanfic that you all have been working so hard to create. I am impressed with the number of new stories to read! Because I was gone for so long, I had a hard time getting back into writing again, and was finally granted a bit of inspiration to help me knock out this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

_An extra-warm thanks goes to Joey for her priceless time. _

**Warning:** Contains graphic material.

* * *

Initial commencement wasn't a problem, but rather staying his course as numerous people repeatedly shouted his name out more and more vehemently. His help was very much needed at the moment, but his mind and heart were elsewhere and he was in no mental state to try to aid anything apart from the relentless tugging of his intuition.

Sully's chest was heavy with fear of the unknown, legs watery from apprehension in spite of the instinctual drive that decided his path so ardently. To the naked eye, he appeared to be adept, strong-minded, and persistent. All of which were accurate, with the exception of the first two.

His hands had found themselves hiding against his roiling stomach, curled into tight fists, the divulgence of anxiety concealed by the deep pockets of his coat. The corruption of normalcy around him suggested a fictitious quality to his awareness, so he forced a singsong mantra to replay in his head for reassurance.

_It's real...find Ty.... It's real...find Ty...._

It was primarily guilt that propelled John Sullivan onward; passing and mentally disregarding the heart-stopping display -gory, unreasonable wastage of human life-- as though the bodies rendered lifeless were as common a sight as umbrellas on a rainy day. The heat of the nearing fire hardly impinged on him, aside from providing his hungrily seeking eyes an eerie searchlight.

His culpability and feelings of self-reproach were not unfounded, but exaggerated by adrenaline and the dread of the impending situation. Today could very well end in an reincarnation of a past event that he'd tried intensely for years to forget - unleashing the devastating blow of death on Ty's mother. Tears scalded his vision as he remembered that fateful night; the night he nearly died himself from heartache. The idea of rehashing all of his carefully repressed emotions affected him to the extent of out-and-out panic.

So he went, running to prevent his guarded self from the ultimate breakdown, running to redeem himself from the ugly past, and running to find a partner that he loved more than his own life.

* * *

"Hang in there, kid..."

To the experienced paramedic, the forced words of encouragement sounded alien and off-the-cuff, authenticating his restive and distracted state. Mechanically, he went through the motions of the job, but his manner lacked its usual vim and vigor, even though he struggled to no avail to return to a more professional and compassionate disposition.

Unnerved to a great degree, Bobby's hands shook as they positioned and collared young Colin; his mouth went dry as he held his penlight between teeth, and his intense eyes threatened to glaze over from sheer dread.

"Okay," he uttered softly, half to himself.

While he worked, the young man's gaze refused to leave Bobby's face and drilled guilt into his conscience with every spilt tear and desperate look of terror. Seeing an accurate reflection of his own vulnerability, Bobby found it harder and harder to be the unwavering stronghold of support and reassurance that he intended to be. Emotions crept up on him, quietly stealing away his stamina with every second, mercilessly breaking and picking away at barriers that he didn't know he possessed until the moment.

The silence behind him caught his attention for a moment as a sudden barrage of screams and shouts shattered it infinitely. He instantly recoiled, unintentionally exposing the grating, incommodious alarm building within him.

"Shit...," murmured one of the firefighters in back of him, and suddenly losing control never felt so feasible, so imminent. Adrenaline now pounding full-bore, his stomach lurched and threatened flippantly to betray him.

He rigidly clenched his jaw in frustration, but afforded himself only a spilt second to recompose his rapidly deteriorating concentration. His brothers' predicament weighed heavily on his heart, however how much he struggled to keep it pushed aside in his mind.

"Bobby?" Colin gasped pathetically, his mouth slackened from pain as blood tainted his teeth a violent scarlet hue. The young man was quickly fading, his condition worsening with every vital tick of time. However, the position of his body required an extensive extraction time that seemed to be out of the question at the moment. The prospect of his continued existence was down to the wire; down to the decisions that Bobby would make in the approaching seconds. "Am I...gonna die?"

Swallowing his dismay, the kindly paramedic reached up and stroked the head of the worried boy, saddened and heartbroken, just inches from the edge himself. "It's okay, kid...I'm gonna take good care of you...."

Securing an IV line lent Bobby a moment to conjure up a plan of action that he hoped would have a good outcome, though the outlook was as dim as it was troublesome.

* * *

Besides the devastating blackness, the silence disturbed Ty greatly, as he was in lieu of any other noise to focus on, save the unharmonious, mournful chant of their pathetic attempts to remain alive. Bosco seemed to have gotten his breathing regulated enough to not be alarming, but still sounded as though he were on the verge of losing it again.

Tears flowed freely from his eyes, but Ty didn't take the time to notice. The thought of lying, immobilized by force, for hours, just waiting until he finally passed away was unendurable to him, and he was grieved perilously, nearly at the end of himself with anguish. Every muscle in his broken body was quavering uncontrollably from sustaining such an unnatural position, sending shockwaves of pain with every spasm. His head pounded, pressure building with every throb, admonishing him for remaining upside-down for so long.

Left alone with his thoughts, he struggled not to dwell on his approaching death, ruminating about past events in his life, surviving vicariously through memories. He had lived a good life, though short, and had few regrets.

He would die on the job just as his father had, life cut much too short, snuffed out with no warning. Ty thought of Sully, the impromptu father figure that he admired and loved so much. His older partner would be affected the furthermost by his death. He knew that his mother would be heartbroken, but Sully would be plunged into the depths of despair. No doubt, he would seek out the bottom of every bottle, searching for answers, guilty with no cause. Ty longed to give him one last hug, to let him know how much he loved him. The thought of leaving without such closure was nearly as devastating as the thought of death.

Beside him, Bosco's miserable excuses for breaths rapidly transmuted into choking. The hand gripping Ty 's arm jarred him as fingers clutched down fiercely, conveying Bosco's pain to him with every spastic squeeze.

"Bos...easy," he repeated for the umpteenth time, hoping that somehow he was helping.

He was pretty much at a loss for words. Though he wished to comfort his dying friend, he felt that there were no words to suffice, nothing he could say to ease any of the agony. The choking continued, loud gags and wheezed respirations lent way to what sounded like hoarse sobs.

"Ty..." Bosco suddenly gasped.

"Unmm..." he grunted back, licking his lips in an effort to speak clearly again.

"You think...someone'll...find us?"

Ty tensed, not expecting the question, and then subsequently, not knowing how to answer it. For his own good as well as Bosco's, he struggled to find some reason to answer positively. The truth remained, however - with every second passing, there was less and less of a chance that they would ever be rescued.

Bits and pieces of the accident interspersed his consciousness, reminding him of the gravity of the wreck with every flashback of flying metal and shattering glass. His heart sank and he cringed unconsciously, shuddering at the cruelty of it all. Their chances were slim to none.

"I don't know."

The innocuousness of his reply flawlessly indicated the degree of his own denial - that, and his inflectionless voice.

Nausea surged from his stomach, burning his throat and mouth as acid raked up his esophagus and seared bitter bile over his tongue. Ty stiffened, but tried not to panic, knowing that if he heaved, he would most likely asphyxiate and die.

Although death seemed inescapable, he'd rather wait it out and die slowly, as opposed to suffocating on his own body fluids.

Bosco appeared to think likewise, and seemed to be hanging on by means of the Herculean capacities that most people assumed he possessed. Ty could only admire the formidable perseverance of the man beside him, as Bosco's irregular, rapid breathing and erratic groans of pain let on that Bosco was injured far worse than himself.

"I don't want..." Bosco began, though every syllable he managed was perceivably forced, "...to die."

"I know, man...I know..." Ty whispered, managing to catch another deep breath without the consequence of gagging. He sighed through the pain, and for a moment, relinquished his thoughts, choosing not to dwell on the obvious, but rather grasped at dim memories of better times.

"I can't do this...."

Though his own self-talk was equivalent with Bosco's blunt disclosure, Ty summoned up the strength to be of some encouragement, as much for himself as his dying friend. "You have...to try...."

* * *

"DK?" Jimmy screamed again, though this time raw panic spiked his voice. The metal walls of his fortuitous prison seemed to rapidly close in on him as the fire licked its way in and around the car, and the smoke --black, thick, and impenetrable-- gathered him and his precious burden in its deadly folds.

In spite of the fact that he was wearing an oxygen mask, the gasoline fumes seeped in and coated his mouth and throat with a numbing acidity, frightening him with the inevitability of it reaching his already taut lungs.

"You guys?" he tried again, lapsing into a fit of coughing the instant he opened his mouth. The smoke inhalation from earlier in the evening had stressed his body to the point that it was refusing another go-round, and consequently beginning to forsake him.

He glanced down at the tiny baby cuddled in his arms, almost entirely swallowed by the bulk of his heavy jacket. Although he knew that compromising his own safety for the sake of the child could end up killing them both, he relinquished to the parental compulsion inciting him and tore off his mask, placing the life-sustaining device over the infant's face. Instantly, his eyes watered relentlessly, and he could feel the heat of the fire singing the hair on his cheeks, forehead and nose, blistering at susceptible skin with an unequalled animosity.

Acting unflinchingly, Jimmy turned his weary body around and felt about for the void of the broken window. Space seemed to stretch on forever, yawning and remorseless, and his fingers scrambled erratically for a few breathless moments before finally settling on the metal frame.

"Hey...!" he croaked out, but was provided only the furious snarl of the conflagration and the hideous lack of human reassurance.

By now the casehardened firefighter was enveloped in a pain like no other as his body punished his actions and intentions, and his psyche nearly hemorrhaged with panic. The tears of frustration had metamorphosed into tears of agony as he realized that he was undeniably entrapped with no out.

Edging out survival, his thoughts immediately centered on his loved ones, and he begged emotively for redemption, for just one more moment with his son and ex-wife,

"Please...help me...."

As a last measure of the intrepid determination he was so well known for, Jimmy stretched out his hand, thrusting his arm through the window frame, ignoring the heat roasting him through his thick jacket. He could only pray that someone would see the soot-blackened yellow, would see that he was still alive despite the futile hopelessness of the situation.

Cuddling the baby as tightly as possible, he irrevocably conceded defeat, submitting and surrendering to his longstanding enemy. It was fire he loved and fire he hated, and fire that would ultimately take his life. All of the years of extinguishing flame, of ousting his foe, had caught up to him, and the odds dealt him his last card.

Grieved terribly, stricken with unsounded sorrow, and utterly humbled by the overwhelming spite of the vindictive, revengeful inferno, he grappled to find closure before the flames found him.

Closing his eyes, Jimmy pressed his stubbled, sweat drenched cheek against the infant's soft head as he brought his knees to his chest and quietly sobbed.

* * *

If the was a will, there was a way, and the look on Doc's face insinuated he would find it no matter what. Resolve, fervor and a hint of resentment rapidly warped the senior paramedic's features, and he strode ahead intrepidly, never flinching as he grew closer and closer to the intemperate flames.

Carlos, however strong his newfound character was, still had a difficult time plowing into what seemed to be inevitable doom. The cackling and spitting heat caused him to shrink away numerous times and he made a great effort to keep his racing heart and mind in check. But his thoughts at the moment bore more of a resemblance to a string of four-letter words than an internal pep-talk.

Presently, the fire had reached epic proportions and was now shooting ten to fifteen feet high, hovering portentously over and around the two men as they crept forward inch by precious inch. It might have just been the blind leading the blind, for neither of them could see more than a foot or so before him - the dense smoke made certain of that.

Fear quickly growing to be prevalent, inexperienced Carlos began to falter. His eyes were stinging and throbbing, his knees were yearning to give out due to his explicit alarm, and he couldn't breathe properly any longer, regardless of his effort to filter out the smoke with a portion of his shirt.

Impulse threatened to get the better of him and command his itching feet to flee. Saving himself, running away, seemed such an unproblematic alternative, and though his mindset was one of steadfastness, even his willpower could be bought for a price.

_I can't do this...._

Unexpectedly, a hand clamped down on his arm and Doc's voice screamed out, barely perceivable above the thunderous roaring, "Carlos?"

Startled, he took a breath before responding, blinking against irritated wateriness of his burning eyes.

_I can't do this.... I have to do this.... _

"Yeah...." His voice was hoarse from strain and soot, and only just rose above a monotonic murmur.

"I...found someone!"

* * *

_"You have to try..."_

The words echoed endlessly, long after they were spoken. The overwrought agony accompanying the low command was not lost on Bosco, as his partner's voice was hoarse, weak, and inordinately uneven. He knew he had to fight, but the enormous undertaking it was just to merely stay alive was as daunting as it was horrific.

Surviving would be superhuman, he thought vainly as he strained to rasp another breath.

Still struggling to keep hyperventilation under control, he didn't dare try to speak again, lest he lapsed back into the incapacitating attack.

_Breathe. Ignore the pain... Ignore it. _

His legs were cramping. First one, then the other; the muscles tightening until he could

feel exactly where they were broken. Throbbing, violent pain enveloped him, gripped him. His chest pained him the worst of all, and as time slowly passed, his lungs seemed to constrict beyond their already insufferable tightness.

Biting tears burned non-stop from his swollen eyes, chafing raw, wet trails into tender skin. His fingers were shaking fiercely, long ago numbed from blood loss and the bone-chilling cold, and virtually harmonized with the hideous quaking of his torso. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lower lip against the pain, as though either futile measure would do him any good.

_Ignore it, dammit! _

Though all but insensate from cold and shock, Bosco felt his hands curl into distraught fists, fingers furiously digging into his palms as he wept his pain out tear by burning tear. The dull roaring of his rapidly pulsing blood deadened his hearing, becoming a monotonous tell of time and the fatalness of his injuries with each desperate, struggling beat.

"Bos...," Ty abruptly mumbled from beside him.

Silence ensued, as Bosco was unable to answer, but his lack of speech didn't deter his partner, who seemed to be distraughtly grappling for some form of relief.

"We're gonna...die."

The pronouncement was spoken softly, dolefully, laced with remorse and fear, but completely lucid and harshly true. Their demise was undeniably certain, yet neither man wished to entertain the thought, as though the acquiescence would break them entirely, crush the remnants of their shattered spirits. Holding on to whatever they could, the last fragile thread of hope, each breath one step closer to an unattainable fantasy, they continued on valiantly, however futile the endeavor may well be.

* * *

For the hundredth time that day, Johnson was inclined to pace about edgily, and for the hundredth time that minute, he was inclined to rake nervous fingers thorough his hair. At the rate he was going, he was liable to go bald before going entirely gray, though his crew was doing a remarkably impressive job at speeding the latter process along.

All of Hell had been unleashed, and fortuitously, he was the man in charge of fixing it all, though at present, he was having a hard time doing anything constructive, save repeatedly yelling orders that now fell on deaf ears.

"DK, Jimmy, get the hell out of there!" His tone had become so frantic that he very nearly shuddered when he heard himself speak. "Do you copy?"

His foremost problem was getting his men back into a safe situation, but their enraged opponent was brutal and most certainly took no prisoners. The grim prospect made the Lieutenant nauseous.

Jimmy, his young maverick, had once again endangered himself to the nth degree, and while his life hung in the balance, several others' lives had been jeopardized to save him.

Gambling with lives was a grisly game of odds and variables, choices and chances, and ultimately one of the impromptu players would lose life, whether it be human or infernal.

Who would be the victor of this game would be determined as the hours of darkness edged on; the cards were on the table, and Johnson wasn't happy with what he'd been dealt.

"Dammit...," he hissed softy, blinking away the snowflakes that blighted his view. Rocking back on his heels, he raked tense hands down the length of his face and squinted into the blaze, prayerful to see even the slightest fragment of hope. "C'mon, guys...give me something."

* * *

Intense, radiant light inundated every sense, but ironically, he couldn't see. He likened the eerie sensation to peering at the sun for too long, or perhaps that fragment of time before one's eyes adjusted to a bright light; his eyes just never adjusted. Hot tears and relentless stinging added to the uncomfortable, disquieting feeling, and only reinforced his alarm.

Though the fire was literally breathing down his neck, it had yet to scathe him, and though he was but a few feet from a gruesome demise, it had left him be thus far. Flames licked and chewed at three sides of him, his back still cooled slightly by the artic night air, oddly enough. Standing so close to the blaze had, at the very least, lessened the smoke inhalation a fair amount, but the heat was nearly unbearable and on the verge of blistering exposed skin.

Wiping at the sweat coursing down his face, Carlos kept his other hand decisively clamped onto Doc's arm, following blindly along. When his partner stopped unexpectedly, the young medic stumbled into him and nearly caused them both to tumble over.

It was then that his vision finally grew accustomed to the lurid brightness and refocused enough to make out dark blurs and shadows. Doc had dropped easily to the ground and was fully concentrating his attention on a doubled-up figure, sinister black in converse to the flamboyantly dancing oranges, reds and whites around it.

"Help me - it's DK!" Doc yelled over his shoulder.

A full-fledged rush of fear finally caused Carlos' to brain registered the sheer magnitude of the situation. DK's motionless form brought about raw emotion and roused feelings of sickened dread, as it appeared that his colleague, his friend, hadn't made it.

"Aw, man...," he moaned breathlessly, his body gripped in utter revulsion.

* * *

"Davis...," Bosco gasped, then took a moment to breathe, to regain his bearings, before continuing in the darkness, "I just.... I want you...to know...that...I always...liked you...."

"Bos...," Ty groaned miserably, not wishing to hear the dying declaration, as if though could delay the inevitable buy cutting Bosco's final farewell at the quick.

"No...listen...," the stubborn officer insisted around compulsory gasps. "I always...thought of you...as a friend...a brother. No matter...what an ass I was...."

Though a friend in Bosco was an unlikely friendship, Ty was strangely honored by the unexpected avowal, no matter how characteristically "Bosco-esque" it had been. He'd always thought of the man as a friend, but would have never expected Bosco to label himself as such.

"Thanks, man...," he murmured after a lengthy pause. "Me too."

"So...this's it...," Bosco stated bluntly, his voice becoming more and more slurred, quieting down to a soft, sluggish whisper. It was so matter-of-fact of him to point it out that way, but realistic in the face of their attempts at believing denial. Ty could feel his will to fight quickly diminishing, hopelessness mounting overwhelmingly as he realized that he needed, more than ever now, to come to terms with dying.

"I'm scared," he blurted out, so consumed with emotion that his tone was completely flat, raw.

"Yeah...," Bosco concurred quietly, his own voice catching.

"It wasn't s'posed to be like this."

Utter silence ensued, so quiet that the two officers could literally hear the resonation of their heartache and desolation, echoing deep and hollow in the stillness.

"I always thought...," Bosco whispered, but trailed off, leaving the two to mourn their rightful deaths.

Only the hideous grating of their attempts to remain alive broke the quiet reflection. Bosco's half-sentence had evoked a stirring of his emotions, a swell of anguish. And finally, after breaking through every last bit of composure, it hit him. It was then that it finally dawned on his distraught self, then that he realized that these words would be his last -- this conversation, his final. This was it.

This was it.

"God...," Ty started, but he lost control and began to weep softly, his body convulsing with muffled sobs. Intense pain flared violently, igniting his body white-hot with every movement, although the breathtaking agony paled in comparison to the pain of his broken heart. Every sob nearly killed him, but the release of pent-up grief gave his aching soul some reprieve. Every fiber of his being screamed for closure, but was cruelly not granted any.

He could feel Bosco lightly squeezing his arm, as though to comfort him. Bitterly, Ty could only think of the absurdity of the small gesture, a move unlike the Bosco he knew. The contrast of the person next to him only solidified the reality of the situation, forcing him to grasp and then try to resign himself to his fate. The idea of dying merely tore at every last shred of dignity that he had left, and he whispered softly into the darkness, voicing what both officers were thinking, "...I'm not ready."

"I'm not ready." His reiteration solidified his sentiments, but reality persuaded him to be guileless and reasonable with his final words. "Bos...tell my mom...I love her...and Sul."

It was then that his will and his body ceased to liaise and he was bereaved of control. He should have panicked when he felt his stomach heave, he should have been insurmountably alarmed when he could taste death seep into his mouth, and he should have been petrified when he began to convulse and vomit, but strangely enough, he had found a remnant of peace amid his devastation.

He felt his strength fading, dying, and disappearing with his ability to breathe. It took no effort at all to slip away, but sapped every last bit of energy from his beaten body.

* * *

Crawling across gnarled metal, sidestepping pools of oil and gasoline, bypassing bloodied corpses, and fighting his way into the heart of the chaos, Sully persevered boldly as though nothing could waver his intent. Internally, however, he was a mess of bewilderment, panic, and fearfulness--a potentially toxic combination of emotions that could nearly drive a person mad and frenetic.

His dark, deep-set eyes scanned and rescanned his surroundings until they ached, but much to his dismay, didn't turn up anything of consequence. He was tempted to call out his partner's name, but knew that his desperate screams would be immediately lost in the clamorous night air.

_Think, Sullivan, think.... Where is he? Where is he...?_

Taking a second to collect himself as best he could, he straightened to his full height, sighed, and unconsciously rubbed his chin.

_You can do this.... C'mon, where is he.... _

His thoughts immediately reverted to a day long ago, back when he had been a fresh-faced kid at the academy. A detective had come in for the day to educate the new recruits on some simple techniques that would help them fine-tune their senses and awareness, so that if faced with an intricate crime scene, they could be of some help to investigators, rather than a clumsy hindrance.

_"Take time to think," the instructor had articulated, leveling his gaze on the class. "Calm yourself down, take a deep breath, and think. Where do your eyes revert first? Disregard it. It's the small things that we catch that close our cases, not the most obvious." _

Sully pondered this for a second, taking the venerable words to heart. His own eyes were inclined to focus on the major influence on light - the fire.

_Disregard it. _

Again, he looked about, but this time, he discerned much smaller particulars. A taillight dangling from a bumper by two red wires. A wool hat, gray, sitting a few feet from the nearest car. Pieces of a shattered hubcap embedded in a tire. Gasoline dripping lazily from a punctured gas tank into a small puddle below.

Nothing of significance, but he was getting somewhere, and somewhere was better than nowhere. His heart pulsed agitatedly in anticipation, and he took a few uncertain steps forward, squinting to narrow his field of vision.

_Concentrate. Think. _

And then he saw it, really saw it for the first time. It had been right in front of him all along, but had been innocuous and above his suspicious gaze -- a hint, a glimmer of shiny metal peering out from within the massive pile of dirt.

The load spilled from the massive truck's bed had rounded out under the steady rain of snow and water, compacting and compressing, groaning and grumbling its misfortune of being disturbed. Until the erosion had unearthed the small fragment it's stolen treasure, the vestige of hope remained eclipsed.

"Oh, good God...," Sully choked, frozen at the horrifying sight.

* * *

"Ty...? Ty!" Bosco hissed, terror manifesting in his voice and cracking it hideously.

Tears sifted through his clenched eyelids as he tried to block out his partner's agonized heaving and choking. But it would never do. He was forced to listen to the sickening nightmare, retch after perverted retch, convulsing and trembling, waning ever so slightly until the requiem of his partner's mortality ultimately died away.

He waited for an eternity, listening for even the smallest reassurance that Ty was alive, but the only sounds to speak of were the short, sharp rasps of his own breaths.

* * *

"Get over there and help, dammit! No standing around! "

The command, directed at a bewildered rookie, had the desired affect and seemed to snap the poor boy out of his motionless stance. While he knew he sounded harsh, impolite, and completely out of character with his barked orders and terse instructions, Lieutenant Johnson also knew that time was an issue and being courteous could be put on hold for a while.

Taking a deep breath, he sighed through his nose and observed the scrambling anthill of confusion. Though chaos appeared to have ensued, the courageous firefighters, paramedics, and police officers were where they were needed most, however dangerous and risky their efforts would prove to be. Things were as smooth as operationally possible, with exception of the dramatic, nerve-racking suicide rescue that his small band of fearless men had embarked on.

He didn't know exactly how long he'd been forced to watch the dreadful events transpire, but it seemed like a short eternity had elapsed, with no happy ending in sight. Hope was up in the air, his men were pushing their luck, and his heart and mind were stressed and strained to the nth degree.

_God, please...get them out of there. Please. I'm...begging you. _

He took some comfort in his artless prayers, even though they appeared to be completely ineffectual at the moment. If anything, the situation had worsened.

_Don't do this to their families. Don't you do this! _

Swallowing back his despair, a movement to his right caught his eye.

Sullivan.

The man, frantic to find a partner, or more accurately, a son, had momentarily stopped his driven quest and was standing completely immobile, staring at the nefarious dump truck and the small mountain spilled from it.

Johnson frowned at the peculiarity of the sight.

A moment or two of mystification later, however, he fully understood the reason for the unexpected standstill, and was instantly sickened with acute revulsion when the officer suddenly scrambled ahead and began to claw at the prominent mass of earth, little by little exhuming a portion of a white bumper.

* * *

TBC...

_I'd love to hear what you all think, as I'm feeling a bit rusty! _


	10. Fire And Rain

**Human After All**

Fire and Rain

.

A/N: Thank you all so much for each and every lovely review. Your encouragement means the world to me! As the holidays are upon us, things have gotten very busy, but I'm hoping to have another chapter up soon. I wish you all the best, and very Happy Holidays!

_This chapter is brought to you in part by Joey's supreme guidance. _

**Warning:** Contains graphic material.

* * *

_**Won't you look down upon me, Jesus**_

You've got to help me make a stand

You've just got to see me through another day

My body's aching and my time is at hand

And I won't make it any other way

* * *

As the night wore on mind-numbingly, Lieutenant Johnson grew more and more horror-stricken by what he was seeing. More than anything in the world, he wished to wake up from the awful nightmare that encircled him, wished that somehow the grotesque wastage of human life was just an outrageous dream.

His jaw worked back and forth slightly, as though he were about to say something but couldn't come up with any words. Hell, he was barely forming thoughts at that point in time, however competent he might have appeared.

Thank God for autopilot, he thought wearily, his chin dropping a fraction as he exhaled deeply. Years on the job had trained and exercised every nerve in his body to react just as it should; no matter what a devastated wreck he was internally. He would deal with the ramifications of all that later. 

Just minutes earlier, he'd sent two or three men over to investigate what John Sullivan had unearthed, though the Lieutenant knew full well what it was. Falling into a lapse of self-preservation, he had just hoped to shove the gory demise of the two cops aside in his mind, if only, for an epigrammatic moment, to not have to deal with the seething nausea that would undoubtedly commence. He had enough on his plate as it was. Selfish of him, he knew, but the constant barrage of emotional A-bombs dropping down around him had weakened his state of mind, his morale, and his steadfastness -- and in his position, he had to bring whatever he had left to the table, then play his cards shrewdly. If he were to survive the night, he'd have to be as resilient as possible and try not to fall prey to his emotions.

He yanked his gaze away from Sullivan only for it to land on another ghastly facet of the horror show. The situation below him, the fateful loss of contact with his men, nearly made his heart bleed. 

"Tell me something," Johnson called out to Billy Walsh, his voice booming over the clamor.

Walsh trotted up to the Lieutenant, forgoing his helmet for a moment to wipe at the perspiration beading on his forehead. His expression did little good for Johnson's optimism; Billy's compassionate eyes were downcast and flooded with dread, his mouth set firmly as though consciously restraining the inescapable and dismal report.

"It's not good, Lieu." Walsh shook his head dejectedly and fumbled with his helmet. He shifted his gaze from the ground to stare Johnson in the eye. His disconcertment was evident. "We got too many casualties, too many entrapped, and one hellofa fire. S'not good at all."

"Yeah..." Johnson responded, rather distractedly. Though he was listening to some extent, most of his attention remained focused on the raging conflagration, the dramatic situation clutching his heart in fear. It was hard to miss the treacherous pain etched deeply in his perspicacious features; his frown lines were distinctive, the vexed furrows in his brow creasing his handsome face like ugly scars.

Walsh caught the distant and distressed look splashed across The Boss' face and frowned, then looked around quickly, immediately discerning the absence of familiar faces in the bustling activity around them -- his crewmates in particular. His eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion.

"Where's Jimmy and DK...and Doc?"

The question, innocent enough and spoken almost mellifluously, enticed the Lieutenant to lose control of himself and surrender to the torrent of tears that he had been so painstakingly holding back. But to save face and to remain unwavering for the sake of everyone who needed his resoluteness, not just for himself, he sighed away the gnawing guilt consuming him, rapidly blinked away the smarting in his eyes, and licked his lips before nodding toward the incineration. "There."

Walsh turned, and straight away, his face went slack and his shoulders slumped wretchedly. "What...?" His sickened hiss was barely audible against the blaring, strident soundtrack of dreadfulness. He grappled for the appropriate questions, but only managed to stare, gaping in revulsion. Yet, his normally benign face said all that was needed, contorting rapidly from thoroughly alarmed to utterly brokenhearted to intensely angry without break. Walsh's widened eyes flashed, gleaming brilliantly in unbridled fury. "You sent them down there?!"

The Lieutenant visibly cringed, but he wasn't hurt or even offended. Emotions were obviously running high, as evidenced by this very uncharacteristic outburst from a man who Johnson would consider one of his most level-headed, kindly and sanguine. However, the loyalty and devotion to his squad was as impervious as it was exceptional. His men cared for each other deeply; each and all considered their small squad a makeshift, but close, family. And they were; complete with the usual quirks -- the fights, the feuds, the teasing, the laughter, and the love ran strong between them. Their shared blood was their devotion to each other. The Lieutenant knew inherently that Walsh's resentment was merely a product of that fidelity.

"I didn't..." Johnson whispered, literally choking on his words before continuing, "...send them down there. Jimmy and DK were just trying to help. Doc and Carlos ran in after them.... Then...well, then I lost contact with them. A few minutes ago, I think." His deliberate testimony really was pathetic in nature, but correct even so. It was difficult to acknowledge the harsh facts, and even though he was fully aware of the situation, he felt a renewed dread heave up his throat, and could safely assume that his expression mirrored Billy's to a T.

Johnson's extemporized explanation did little to alleviate the passion glaring fiercely from Billy's narrowed gaze, but softened the abrupt, hard lines around his eyes a bit. He understood...barely.

"I'm goin' down there."

There were no further queries, no arguments, no finger-pointing for which Johnson had immediately braced himself. At any rate, he felt as though he deserved it all and much more. The lack of condemnation in Walsh's softy-uttered, simple proclamation coerced the lieutenant's eyes to moisten and his knit eyebrows to ease up in incredulity. However much he appreciated the volunteering, though, he would not and could not lose another man.

"No," he spat out, firmly grabbing Walsh by the upper-arm as he turned to leave. Billy stiffened and spun around rapidly, blinking in surprise. A long second elapsed as the two men silently stared each other down, ardor oozing from one set of vividly intense eyes to the other like a frigid shaft of ice. 

"Boss...." The grief and misery in Billy's tone of voice was clear-cut and unequivocal, though his tone suggested he was warning his superior rather than questioning him. He wrenched himself away from the Lieutenant's grasp; his breath was fast, heavy, sending a profuse cloud in the midnight air. The caginess on his face was clear as day. He was livid, hurt, and confused regarding the low command. But he would have to understand.

Johnson slowly shook his head and reiterated his position on the matter, equally and absolutely enraged at himself, the horrific decisions that he was being forced to make, and the iniquitousness of the situations at hand. It was all slowly killing him. 

He swallowed hard. "No. I said no. I'm sorry, I can't risk you too."

* * *

The impromptu rains, artificial and falling from the mouths of hoses, mingled with the slinging snow and ice and cascaded down around Sully, plastering his dark hair to his forehead as it rolled down his flushed cheeks. The substantial amount of water spilling downward hampered his efforts as the precipitation weighed down, compacting the dense earth until it felt like cement. Each new fistful of dirt was harder and harder to manage, and the force he had to use just to dig his scrambling fingers into the heap ached all the way to his shoulders. But he strove on intrepidly, as though his very life depended on his actions. And perhaps it did. 

So determined and unduly shell-shocked, the senior officer had yet to scream for help, had yet to even fully comprehend what the smooth white paint he was unearthing meant. He just knew what he had to do and did it, without taking the time to process the dreadful significance of the emerging metal. Adrenaline saw fit to rocket his heart rate well above the norm, and surged erratically over and over, threatening to take away his ability to breathe correctly. He was only just respiring as it was, each intake of icy air short and painfully sharp, well-nigh hyperventilation.

He was numb; his thoughts were non-existent. It was the resonation of his pulse hammering in his head that filled his vacant mind, the pounding of his fear manifesting itself.

It was only after the whole of a license plate was in view of his desperate eyes that the situation became apparent, hitting him unsympathetically like a swift kick in the teeth. He sank back on his heels, gasping for breath at the abysmally familiar numbers.

It was 55-David, as he'd feared.

* * *

_Oh god, this's hell...._

His blood seemed to be pooling in his head and his skin felt scorching hot and fevered, yet internally, Bosco was freezing, chilled to the bone. The irrepressible shivering that quaked his heave-wracked body only seemed to exacerbate, instead of lessening as he assumed would happen as he slowly died; his arms and legs were aching hideously from the constant trembling, muscles strained and exhausted from sporadic convulsing. The deadening cold numbed his aching body to some extent, but also ironically heightened whatever pain he did feel to an excruciating intensity. The loudest noises in his pitch-black tomb were the incessant chattering of his teeth, his gurgling, gagging inhalations that only just resembled breathing, and the occasional reflexive whimper or moan emitting from his dry, chapped lips. The skin on his face was burning red-hot from tears and blood as the hot fluids gouged searing lines in every hypersensitive inch of his cold, exposed flesh. But his internal pain was far worse. 

_Ty's dead. _

The last few moments had substantiated the atrocious fact. As he left, the stomach-turning resonance of Ty's choking had slowly eased away into oblivion, and though Bosco had tried his best to rouse his friend -- first calling out as loudly as he could manage, and then resorting to harshly digging his fingers into Ty's arm in full-fledged panic -- the reality remained. The lack of reaction was positively crushing; it hit Bosco like a vicious punch in the stomach.

He'd been left, now to die utterly alone. 

A bitter taste seeped into his mouth, coppery and thick as his nose bled unremittingly in the back of his throat. He swallowed it away as best he could, but the acerbic taste remained; he could only hope the blood wouldn't coagulate.

Keeping his thoughts about something other than the categorical darkness that enshrouded him was a feat, as his body threatened to get the best of him and lose it, spiraling out of control. The last thing he needed was another panic attack; not here, not now. But despite his best efforts, he hovered precariously on the brink of the inevitable. He concentrated on his feeble attempts to breathe to keep his aimless mind from wandering over the edge.

But he was so tired - exhausted really, completely done in. His laudable fight for his life became more and more ridiculous and unreasonable to him as the night wore on, and the temptation to cease and desist was as tantalizing as it was wrong. Nevertheless, regardless of his advantageous intentions, he found his eyelids dragging shut, eyes gradually rolling backwards into his head. He relaxed slowly, easing his tremulous form away from the painful agony gleefully goading and stabbing at him. 

_Wake up or you're dead...._

Maybe he was doomed to begin with, and he had pretty much resigned himself to the fact, but the thought sent his eyes open once more. Giving up suddenly seemed completely out of the question, as his pride and stubborn streak got the best of him.

_Stay awake. Stay awake until they find you, Boscorelli, or you're dead. _

He blinked, squeezing scalding tears out of the corners of his eyes. He was delusional, he was sure of that now. Nobody would find him. Ty was dead already, why not just give up the infernal struggle to survive, the struggle he was so adamant about fighting? It would most certainly prove to be the easier, less painful way to transact things, but he knew himself all too well. Even if he mentally forwent the epic endeavors, his tenaciousness and the intractable strength of his will would, without a doubt, slide in and take over, leaving him striving all the more vehemently to remain alive. A lose-lose situation, as far as he was concerned. 

Had he been in any state to do so, he would have snorted at himself in disgust. Of all the times to be a stubborn ass....

He sighed and groaned loudly, his hot, moist breath shrouding his face. The heat was comforting, almost, like the gentle caress of fingers on his skin. His heart ached severely as he wished someone could be with him, so he wouldn't have to die alone. The thought impelled his preservation instinct to gain even more strength. 

And so he would persevere, carry on superhumanly if it killed him, or to be more precise, _until_ it killed him. It was only a matter of time.

_This is so fucked up. _

* * *

"Oh shit, oh man...."

Carlos was unaware that he was muttering under his breath, that his hands had began to shake from the adrenaline that was surging through his veins like liquid lightning, or that he was repeatedly swallowing at the growing lump in his throat, sending his Adam's apple bobbing furiously. He was, on the other hand, very aware that each movement he made from that moment on was crucial, and every decision made by either he or his partner could prove life-threatening. It was that very realization that had his stomach roiling up in knots.

His eye-line had taken on sort of a tunnel-vision quality, as he mentally disregarded anything in his peripheral, and was exceedingly focused on the body that was crumpled in a heap directly before him. His actions had become very unselfconfident, almost spastic as he moved in sporadic increments. But he was moving, and that was all but a shocker to him, considering his thrown brain was currently drawing a massive blank.

Carlos' partner seemed to be as competent as ever -- surprise, surprise. He was leaning over DK, draped atop him like a blanket as he pressed his ear next to the fallen firefighter's slack and open mouth. Even through the smoke and excessive watering of his eyes, Carlos didn't miss Doc's hand stroking DK's head comfortingly as he listened intently for signs of life, and the touching sight broke at the rookie's furiously fraying capacities. That damn lump was getting huge and harder to ignore. 

Doc mumbled something and leaned over farther, moving down now to press his ear to DK's throat. His movements were gentle and sensitive, as though he was making a great effort not to hurt his friend any further.

A thick tongue of fire began to lick hungrily at the senior paramedic's back, as if tasting or sampling the would-be treat.

Becoming increasingly disturbed and frightened by the impending feast of flesh, Carlos slapped at the beast with his hands, driving it away as best as he could. It growled and spat back, but fortunately retreated backwards a bit.

Doc didn't flinch at the unexpected touch, the forcible smack on the back; his mind and determination were so concentrated that he was pretty much oblivious to everything, including the fire rapidly encasing them in its claws.

Carlos opened his mouth to speak, probably to say something inane and obvious, but Doc beat him to it with a loud shout and a wave of his hand. "He's alive!"

The exclamation sounded as though it were underwater, as it was broken and effervesced by the cackling of the guffawing fire. And although he was glad to hear the good news, Carlos' relief was short-lived and spitefully pithy.

The fire abruptly bellowed in rage and leapt out at the three men, a huge mouth of flame, open wide and ready to eat; its breath was irately sizzling and impossible to ignore as it scalded bare flesh. Carlos heard himself yelp in terror, but it sounded far off and as if it had shattered into infinitesimal fragments.

"Help me!"

Thank God for Doc, Carlos thought as his arm was yanked down until his hand came in contact with the knobby bone of a wrist. The young rookie had no idea where he would have been had he not had the older paramedic's on-the-ball supervision and guidance. Probably dead, he mused bleakly as he reached for the opposite wrist to latch on to.

Watching his partner intently, Doc waited until Carlos had both of his hands fully wrapped around both of DK's arms and had tightened his shaky fingers into a death-grip, before he himself moved in, took up DK's legs and hoisted his end of the limp body off of the ground.

"Dammit, Carlos, GO!"

There was no further urging required, and Carlos snapped out of his panicky, trance-like state enough to backpedal as quickly as he could, lugging DK away from maw of death. The firefighter's body was a dead weight, as heavy as it was lifeless and static, and he swayed listlessly back and forth between the harried paramedics like a rag-doll, but he could have weighed nothing judging by how fast Carlos and Doc absconded toward safety. 

His footsteps in sync with his halting respirations, Carlos soldiered on with true grit, only one thing echoing through his hollow mind, displaying the most selfless of thoughts. _Don't let him die.... Don't let him die! _

For some reason, at that moment, he really didn't give a damn if he himself died.

* * *

Jack Spence rolled onto his back, hacking soot and smoke from his febrile, constricted lungs. His mask must have been jarred from over his mouth when he'd fallen, and now pumped cool, sweet oxygen to his left cheek. He almost smirked at the quirk of fate, giddy from lack of oxygen, but he was still choking and heaving as though the next cough would exorcise a lung.

Painful shit, this was. He promptly reached up and adjusted his facemask to cover his gasping lips, and eagerly sucked in the much-needed influx of clean air with a greediness second to none. He took a moment to right his breathing before taking a stab at his bearings.

"God..." he groaned as he struggled to sit up, discombobulated as to where the hell he was, how the hell he'd gotten there, and why the hell he was there. A blistering inferno just about monopolizing every spare inch around him only added to his bewilderment, and he silently begged his sluggish brain to work with his instinctually unnerved and frightened body for a moment. His impulse to survive was instantaneous, nevertheless, and had him scrambling up into a low crouch, shielding his face with his arms as he squatted into as small a hunch as possible.

_Alright, Spence.... Where are ya? _

He reached out a hand swung it in a large arc, from his front to behind him. Halfway back, he hit something hard and unyielding, and his arm pinged off of the object with a harsh, braying crack.

_Ow. _

Though a painful one, his discovery was a start. He wasted no time and duck-walked over toward the hard mass, squinting against the haze of smoke and the mist of his breath fogging up his visor. He was having no luck with his ability to see, thanks in part to the fire spitefully singeing his eyelashes, so he used every firefighter's second set of eyes--his hands--to feel about.

It only took a second to realize that he was groping a car, and a very smashed-up one at that. He immediately pressed himself against the hot metal sideboard, and then slowly inched his body up, keeping his belly flush to the car for fear of losing his only landmark. His enthusiastically searching fingers found the door handle, and then the hollow of a broken window.

_Christ...._

It hit him violently and without warning, and all of the preceding events rushed back in a flash, with no penance or pity.

There was another firefighter in this mangled heap of red-hot sheet metal, and a helpless baby to boot, and it appeared as though he was the only fellow in any position to help.

* * *

"On my count. One, two, THREE!"

Bobby's tone was husky, crusted with tension, yet the grieved look in his rich brown eyes was the only other sign of his unmitigated dismay. He was the proficient, equable, compassionate medic to the untrained eye, but inside he was failing fast, fighting the itch to crack.

His tautened arms burned from the effort required to conscientiously, slowly lift the injured boy, Colin, out of the carcass of the vehicle; a vein or two showed the laboriousness on his neck, nervous perspiration dampened the back of his neck until his hair curled, and his features were drawn back in a strained grimace.

The two firefighters helping him reciprocated the stressed appearance as they themselves heaved with all of their might. A quick peek inside of their heads would have revealed a deferential admiration of the paramedic, as his swift disengagement of the victim was a consummate and praiseworthy move on his part.

But Bobby wasn't bothered with what a great job he'd just done, by any means. In fact, he couldn't have cared less. He was more concerned with getting the boy up and out of the hellhole, into the safety of an ambulance, and off to a surgeon. That, and he was secretly terrified of injuring his patient further, in view of the fact that he was working without an adequate partner, and in one of the worst circumstances imaginable. His confidence was running mighty thin. 

"Got him? We all good?" He spoke to no one in particular, and took a moment to readjust his grip on the handle, fiddle with the saline drip, and make sure the poor kid was all the way covered up in the callously cold night.

Bobby had had a difficult time making eye contact with Colin the whole time he worked; seeing such compelling, uninhibited fear had roused his own deep-seated sentiments and had enticed him to nose-dive into the meticulously repressed emotions. Tempting, yes, but now was not the time.

"Let's go."

The three emergency workers made short work of scrambling away and reaching the freeway's cement incline, where they were promptly aided in hoisting the Stokes stretcher the twenty-or-so feet above. Bobby hastily clambered up after his patient, calling out stats and directives to the boy's new caretakers as he jogged alongside, "BP 80 over 40, pulse 130, resps 20, decreased breath sounds on the left, pupils reactive --left one's sluggish-- got a large-bore of saline running...."

One of the paramedics transporting Colin caught Bobby's eye for a brief moment and gave him a shadow of a smile that didn't reach her pretty eyes. "Good job," she nodded unflappably. "We got it from here." 

She and her partner prepared to lift the stretcher into an awaiting ambulance, but the hoarse sound of Bobby's voice stopped them. "Wait."

He moved up and grabbed Colin's hand, and knowing that, in all likelihood, the boy could not feel his touch, held their hands up a bit so the young man could at least see the small act of compassion.

"You did real good, kid," he said, emotion tugging insufferably at the corners of his voice. He was vaguely aware that he was nodding his head slightly, out of nervousness, he supposed; his lips were pressed together in a half-smile, more lopsided and uneasy than he would have liked. Tears suddenly seemed more likely than ever, and the following utterance cracked hideously every-other syllable, but he continued on as though nothing was wrong, "You're gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay, you hear?"

It was all he could do not to lose it. So immersed in dread and panic, he couldn't tell whom he was trying to reassure more -- Colin or himself.

But when an appreciative smile faintly lit the boy's trembling lips, Bobby knew that his words had achieved what he'd intended, and though shaky, were just as sincere and considerate as anything he had ever said.

As the ambulance lit with lights and sound and roared off, Bobby remained for a long moment, staring after the bus but not really seeing it. He heaved a heavy sigh, breathing, existing, preparing himself for the worst. He didn't know if he could handle it. 

His gaze rolled heavenward and he crossed himself religiously, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

* * *

He could hear himself screaming for help, could feel his lungs forcing the loudest of yells, but Sully was so detached that his own voice sounded alien. He was trembling beyond description, causing his teeth to rattle in his head, and his hands seemed to swerve and jerk from side to side so erratically that it was hard to continue raking and scratching at the earth. 

"Help! Someone help me!"

He seemed to be getting nowhere. Aggravated, Sully yanked off both of his thick winter gloves with his teeth, digging his bare fingers into the dense soil. An icy chill instantly shot up his arms, making him shudder involuntarily.

Using the unburied bumper as an improvised guideline, he moved to his left a little until he was scratching at the dirt he assumed covered the side of the vehicle. And he dug, calling out intermittently, pleading for help.

Going on appearances alone, the casual observer could unmistakably perceive Sully's sentiments as though his face were an open book. The glazed-over look of his widened eyes suggested profound agitation, his lower lip was quivering slightly, his cheeks were ruddy and flushed notwithstanding the inhumanly low temperature, and he didn't seem to heed the driving rain and snow pelting him. 

He could hear the popping and groaning of metal as somebody made their way toward him at a fast pace, but he didn't take the trouble to have a look. It was only after a firm hand alighted on his left shoulder did his head snap around.

"You okay, pal?" A large pair of bottle green eyes blinked back at him, waiting. The middle-aged fellow that they belonged to wore the dark blues of typical police getup, though he was unfamiliar, and he to seemed to be truly concerned, what with the way he was stooped over, squatting down until his face was only a half-foot from Sully's. The eyes shot downward, glancing at Sully's furiously toiling hands, and they abruptly darkened, then sparked, shooting up once more. "What's this?"

"My partner," Sully growled curtly, a hint of a more characteristic reaction lacing his tone. He hadn't meant to be gruff, but his frustration was stanch; he was really starting to frighten himself with the way he was literally hanging on to his composure by a thread.

"What? He's under...in there?!" The man's voice surged up nearly three octaves and he dropped to his knees alongside Sully, strictly clutching the older officer's arm in disbelief. His grip was tight enough that Sully could feel his pulse beating through his fingers. "Are you positive? You sure?"

"Yes."

The croak of certainty sent the green-eyed policeman into a mild frenzy, and he made haste to fall into sync with Sully, breaking up earth and shoving it aside as quickly as humanly possible.

"We need help," Green-eyes huffed a moment later, practically under his breath. Then louder, as he picked up his head to call out, "_WE SOME NEED HELP OVER HERE! _" 

Several faint shouts of acknowledgement followed. People were coming; people were going to help him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, his face crumbling, it was all becoming too much, and Sully struggled not to weep.

* * *

Auspiciously, Jack Spence was one of the minority of hotheads in his field; he was fairly young and somewhat brash -- not quite a rookie, but not much more qualified, and his best and worst trait had to be that he had little or no fear of fire, his nemesis. He tackled the job as though every fire was just a hitch or an annoyance; his theory being "obstacles are just things to step off of."

While most firefighters had a grip on their mortality, he didn't seem to pay his own much heed. His impetuous way of thinking showed every now and again, as he was a bit more daring than his Captain would fancy, but he was damn good at what he did. His nerve and lack of respect for fire was commendable, paradoxically.

Instead of a look of trepidation he should have been wearing and would have been more befitting, his face was puckered strictly in concentration, his resolve totally leveled on the task at hand. Even now employing his barefaced audacity, he scooted himself farther upwards, ignoring how very hot his helmet had abruptly become and the little rivulets of sweat that began to stream down his face. His shoulder came up on something soft and very limp, and whatever it was subsequently draped over him and fell across his back with a lifeless thump.

_An arm.... Bingo. _

For a split second, his features crinkled into a rascally grin, and heard himself sigh softy in delight. If his memory served him correctly, they'd popped the roof of the piece-of-shit car just enough to allow the entry of his fellow comrade, so the busted window was a tight squeeze - much too tight for himself. And if he remembered accurately, the man that had wriggled through was a bit shorter and slighter than he. At nearly six-feet-five and 240, Jackson was a big guy, but trim, fit, and all muscle. Hopefully his brawn would prove useful.

"Hey, buddy?" he hollered loudly and shook the insentient man's arm with vigor, but as per usual, his words merely echoed around madly in his mask, only to be heard by his own ears or the exceptionally perceptive; the wilted arm remained flaccid.

_Maybe he's dead.... Maybe, but make sure. _

His mental self-talk kept him functioning in the intense heat, smoke, and vulnerability of the moment, despite how ridiculous he might have sounded to himself. 

_Besides, you idiot, you aren't leaving him behind to burn up. You just aren't. _

Pushing forward, he reached both arms into the car as far as humanly possible, grasping furiously at the soft, motionless form, seeking a good grip. He found the baby initially, cuddled up in a heap, buried almost entirely in the other firefighter's strapping arms. For a moment, he was taken aback as he realized that a life-sustaining oxygen mask was covering the child. His heart dropped along with his mouth.

_Ah, man...he risked his life for the kid. _

Jack was now quite sure that the gutsy firefighter was dead, but thrust his fingers up under the drooping head until his fingers were pressed deeply into the skin of his neck, searching for a pulse, just in case.

It was there, barely, but it was there. 

Now he was at a complete loss. There was no way that he could get all three of them out of the mess, and his heart rate picked up rapidly as he was forced to come to terms with this fact. But he was as obstinate as he was rash; instead of conceding defeat, choosing one victim over the other --or playing God, as he saw it-- he scrambled to figure out an alternative plan of action. The only sign of his nervousness showed itself as he clenched his teeth until his jaw-line was definite and rigid.

It took a moment to come up with an idea, and even then he was doubtful that it would work. On the other hand, he was never one to give up without a sufficient fight. Scowling in sheer absorption, Jack was the picture of fortitude and doggedness with his harebrained strategies and never-give-in attitude; he would stick to his guns in the face of the bleak outlook.

He never liked playing God anyhow.

* * *

He didn't know how long he'd been running, maybe a few minutes as he wove through the nucleus of rescue efforts, his aim a beeline to the Boss. The fabric of his pants swished as he went and his booted feet slapped the pavement in an imperfect rhythm: slap, slap, sidestep, slap.

Though he wished it not to, his gaze repeatedly wandered from straight-ahead to the side and down, curiosity gaining an advantage over his best intentions.

_Focus_, he reprimanded himself for the millionth time, almost piqued at his seeming lack of control. The self-reproach was not without warrant, nor was it the first rebuke of the night. There was only one way to survive what the city of New York had to sling at him, Bobby had found, and the credo was constantly on his mind, keeping him in check: He couldn't save them all, so he had to just do what he could. One at a time. 

Such philosophy more or less went against every compassionate, selfless fiber in his being, but he had to implement it daily to be able to leave work relatively unscathed at the end of each day. The nauseating guilt of passing over the lesser injured, of having to place one person before another, was menacing, and had pitilessly garnered its fair share of tears from the kind paramedic. 

_You can't save them all. _

One last inquisitive glance and he was immediately glad he took it, however difficult it was to behold. 

"Sweet Jesus..." he moaned, all at once sickened.

He skidded to a halt, spraying snow up as he spun around rapidly on his heels then launched into a full sprint. Each panted breath was littered with a murmured diatribe of fear, low exclamations of horror droning fluently off of his lips.

As he converged on the wreckage, miserable wailing and crying lit the night air, and mercilessly taunted him with every sigh and scream of torture. He yearned to help so badly that his hands suddenly became numb, his heart dropped like a stone. 

_You can't save them. _

He managed to spit out a colorful expletive as he slid aimlessly down the embankment, and eventually he found good footing and righted himself to his feet, running again. His eyes refused to tear away from the sight that so forcibly held his attention. 

Bobby didn't need to be any closer to instantly recognize the body of his close friend, and he ceased his dash when he came upon an obstruction. He sagged, bracing himself upright against the hood of a crumpled car, trying to catch suddenly elusive air as he reeled, too staggered to vault his body over the car and help.

_You can't save him. _

The spectacle was as tragic as it was real, and left Bobby with agonizingly empty lungs and a thrashing, aching heart. On a small scrap of relatively clear pavement, Doc was kneeling down beside DK's motionless body, his locked elbows jogging up and down, his mouth mutely mouthing out a five-count metrically synchronized with his bobbing torso. Carlos was intermittently dipping down to force air into a slackened mouth; his fingers trembled as they pinched a sooty nose between them.

The young medic glanced up and caught Bobby's eye for a transitory second, a candid moment of raw, naked soul. His sorrow was unmistakable, and the slight shake of his head simply validated the tears washing white lines down his blackened cheeks.

* * *

Out of the darkness, stifled sounds hissed in Bosco's ears. They were low and sporadic, barely audible against the rushing of blood as his heart pulsated in his head. He grit his teeth and forced himself to restrain the rush of elation begging to arise, to save himself from inevitable disappointment. 

Was he hallucinating?

He frowned and concentrated harder, focusing his energy solely on perceiving even the minutest of sounds. All of a sudden, dirt began to fall, dusting his face with granular, gritty soil, the infinitesimal grains easily finding their way into his nose and mouth, feeling not unlike an infestation of tiny parasites. And the murmurs bubbled louder. 

No, he wasn't hallucinating; this wasn't a psychedelic deliration dreamt up by his fevered brain. 

With help so close, the claustrophobia that he'd somehow managed to keep at bay laughed spitefully in his face and erupted. His skin began to crawl and the invisible walls of darkness seemed to close in on him like a tightening vice.

He had only a matter of moments before his weary body would lose control entirely.

* * *

TBC... _Any and all comments/thoughts are appreciated :) _

_"Fire and Rain" is by James Taylor. _


	11. Bittersweet Symphony

**Human After All**

Bittersweet Symphony

A/N: As always, the consistent support through every single observation, remark, and appraisal by my readers makes my day and sincerely drives me to be a better writer. You have all blown me away with each and every lovely review and comment, and I would like to thank you profusely! This one's for you, guys.

_Due respect goes to Joey, the remarkable woman who puts up with me ad infinitum. I hope I never stop learning from her._

**Warning:** Contains graphic material.

* * *

The car horns were loud, but the people's clamor nearly drowned them out. Shouts of complaints, sulky grumbling, angry curses, and questions, so many questions – Steven Gusler had heard all of the above too many times to count in the last hour. It seemed like patience ran thin when it came to hindrances in traffic, and the long lines of cars waiting to clear the intersection were a perfect testament of the lack of tolerance. 

Perhaps if these people saw just what was causing the holdup, they would shut up, Gusler thought. He certainly would, that's for sure. Even now, though he was working two blocks from the scene and was pretty well removed from the situation, he was still reeling and knocked for six.

Another horn blared, and was held impertinently for about ten seconds longer than necessary.

"These folks are somthin' else, huh, kid?"

Gusler's new supervisor, Les Murphy, seemed to have an adverse reaction to the night's problems, and instead was rather chatty, talking up a storm as he casually sipped on a mug of coffee. His rather blasé behavior confused Gusler more than it surprised him, as the wet-behind-the-ears rookie wasn't expecting such nonchalance. He'd have felt more comfortable if the man had shown some form of disconcertment. Had Gusler been more experienced, he might have recognized that the excess of chatter tonight was actually a result of Officer Murphy's nerves, rather then the more obvious impression of insensitivity.

"Damn horns. Always remind me of the alarms in 'Nam. Loud suckers, those were. Liked to go off just as you were getting some decent shut-eye." Les shook his head, shifting his weight a bit as he waved another car into the intersection with his baton.

Gusler carefully eyed Officer Murphy, bewildered by the man he'd been pawned off to. Les was a short, stout man, surprisingly muscled despite his round-around-the-edges physique, and his hair, once a deep russet color, had turned more salt then pepper, bits of gray flecking his mustache as well. His face was casehardened, world-roughened; years of smiles and frowns cut deep wrinkles into his tanned skin. However, his eyes were a bright young blue and made a person double-guess his age. But he was definitively old, and even though Gusler couldn't tell just how old, he certainly had no less than ten years on Sullivan. Which had to make him, what…? Far too old to figure out; Sullivan was pretty old as it was, but this guy was prehistoric.

Spending only a few minutes with the talkative officer had lent Gusler a lot of information concerning his latest overseer. Les Murphy had once been a Sergeant in the Marines for years before being shipped off to Vietnam, where he spent the better part of five years, "openin' a can of whoop-ass on the Viet-Cong." After his tour, Murphy "settled down" and took an "easy" job with the NYPD, and had been patrolling the streets for the last thirty-or-so years. He showed no signs of the typical world-weariness that most of the other veteran cops sported, but was sharp and sprightly, and more than willing to talk an ear or two off.

"I remember this one night," Murphy reminisced with an air of disdain. "We'd just gotten back to base camp after about a week in the jungles. Scary shit. Crawlin' around on the wet ground, wonderin' if you'd wake a snake or somthin'. We were just tickled to get a hot meal and a bed you know, after bein' soaking wet and hungry for so long, a bed seems like the lap of luxury, kid." He shot Gusler a knowing look, and took a big sip of his long-cooled coffee, wrinkling his nose in an unconscious protest to the drink's lack of temperature. "Anyway, the damn alarm goes off not more than an hour after we'd collapsed into bed, and boy, were we pissed as hell. Pissed enough to take out those goddamn guerrillas in ten minutes flat, I tell ya – ten minutes." He gave a short laugh, resembling more of a guffaw or a snort of contempt, but was grinning for some reason. He seemed to be waiting for some sort of reply from his trainee.

"Ten minutes, huh?" Gusler offered meekly. He really didn't know how to talk to the man, seeing as they had nothing in common. So throughout the night, he had resorted to parroting, asking questions already answered, or just nodding his head repeatedly like a bobble-head doll.

Another horn sounded, and while Gusler started uneasily, Murphy just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms across his barrel-like chest. The older police officer certainly acted like nothing could faze him – not even "a horde of mad-ass guerrillas," as he had so eloquently put.

"The tyranny of the urgent," Murphy sighed loudly with a smirk. "Ever'one's got someplace ta' go; always in a hurry."

"Yessir."

"They're just a bunch a lucky bastards that they aren't involved in that pileup. Geez, don't got any idea how good they really have it right now, do they?"

"_APB to all units,"_ squawked their radios, the dispatcher sounding pressed for time and brusque. _"Keep an eye out for the following suspects: Teen male, Hispanic, involved in a hit-and-run, driving a white sedan; Caucasian male, mid-30's, wearing a green jacket, driving a red pickup, suspect in the kidnapping of a four-year-old girl – considered armed and dangerous. All units be advised."_

Gusler glanced over at Murphy. The older man was nodding unperturbedly; they'd heard the same APB twice in the last hour, and Murphy seemed to take the notice for what it was – just a warning to keep an eye out, nothing further. But somehow, knowing that the kidnapper was still loose, unnerved Gusler all the more especially since he'd been privy to what the perpetrator had done. He was still trying to get himself past the incident, but the stomach-turning images from earlier lurked sinisterly in the shadows of his mind.

The horn blared yet again, first a long, drawn-out peal, then a series of short angry honks, sounding akin to a car alarm going off. It was annoying and uncalled for, and Murphy appeared to have had enough. He turned to Gusler, a scowl of contempt puckering the engraved crow's feet around his eyes.

"Kid, you go tell that son-of-a-bitch to knock it off right now, or…." Les paused to wave the next three impatient drivers forward, but then seemed to forget that he'd left his little diatribe hanging.

"Or what, sir?" Gusler questioned, unsure if he should just leave then. He took a measured step forward to stand beside his supervising officer.

"Or _I'll_ knock _him_ off." Murphy growled; he didn't look as though he were mincing words. What with his grisly, macabre stories from 'Nam, and Murphy's general no-nonsense appearance and attitude, Gusler didn't doubt him for a second. "Got it?"

"Sir," Gusler nodded and hastened off down the street.

* * *

Emotional pain seared raw and more agonizingly then physical, burned hotter than tears sliding down cold skin. And he didn't know what to do. Just sat there like a fool, gasping for air enough, swallowing back an uprising of sickness. 

The motionless body beneath his hands was heartlessly drained of life. Death, the filthy bitch that she was, lingered to watch for reaction; she loomed in the air thicker and more suffocating than the smoke swirling around him.

Carlos refused to look down, even as he worked, instead keeping his own eyes locked with a pair of disbelieving and devastated brown ones. He recognized the desperation in Bobby's eyes and took a peculiar solace in it. Subconsciously, it was as though he thought that letting his gaze deviate would break much more than eye contact.

And Bobby seemed to be of the same mind staring at Carlos as though he were the last soul on earth; his eyes virtually screamed. His mouth hung slightly agape, and Bobby looked as though he was keeping himself upright by bracing his arms on the hood of a smashed car. The pain rendered by the reprehensible fire was nauseating and genuinely tangible.

Shell-shocked and reeling, Carlos became vaguely aware of someone yelling loudly, but occupied his attention with forcing mouthfuls of air into DK's unresponsive lungs; his friend's lips were blue and stony cold against his own.

Every movement from Carlos was almost a God-given reflex, and he moved robotically, as though trying not to think eradicated all fluidity of his mind and body.

Doc, conversely, was becoming beside himself, his movements jerky with wild indignation. He was quick to channel his anguish via anger, but a grief-stricken welling of his eyes betrayed the insensitive pretense.

"C'mon, breathe!" the senior paramedic spat through clenched teeth. His passion was evident, but the look on his face, however upset, despairing, and frustrated he was, accepted the obvious: his efforts were amounting to nothing.

Doc's voice fell as he began to murmur, "breathe for me" cyclically, like a broken, hideously scratched record. And with each pitiful plea, Carlos felt his chest hitch, like a fist was grasping his heart and wringing the hope out of his blood.

Five compressions, breathe; five more, breathe.

Carlos kept an ad hoc count as they struggled to salvage any life. Five, ten, fifteen…seventy five, breathe, eighty. Good God, it wasn't working.

And then he couldn't anymore. He slipped, let his eyes travel, then took a long look at DK's face – soot everywhere, settling into the cracks of newly blistered skin, singed eyelashes, melted together and resting placidly against his cheeks, lips so lifelessly blue that they were almost as dark as his soot-blackened skin – and Carlos suddenly couldn't keep at it; he couldn't keep pounding at his friend's body any longer.

Enough.

He straightened slightly, stiffly. "Doc…," he croaked and shook his head; kept shaking it as he heard himself, his admission of defeat, echoing and screeching madly in his ears.

Soot, loosened from his head, rained down a mournful black rain around him. He refused to look Doc in the eye, or back at DK, and his gaze fell unceremoniously on his hands shaking and limply turned face-up on his knees as though they were dead as well.

"No."

The older paramedic's one-word issue was more of a command then an answer; his intonation was virtually a roar. Carlos flinched as though he'd been slapped.

Refusing the inevitable, Doc kept on hammering; five more times before he checked for a pulse. His jaw hardened into a strict line, despite rapid blinking, his eyes misted over in pain, and his breathing became erratic, puffing clouds of despair. At the moment, his body language conveyed more succinctly than words: there was nothing. DK was too far gone.

Suddenly, as though the realization had struck him harshly in the face, Doc jerked back awkwardly, and then sank down on his haunches in submission. His deep, almost guttural, breathing grated on Carlos' ragged nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

A long, suspenseful minute passed, ringing hideously of their capitulation and yield, as both men stared at one another, although their eyes were devoid of any readable emotion.

Carlos felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew he should be feeling, or doing something, but reality itself seemed like a passerby. So he blinked at Doc, waiting for something to happen.

He didn't have to wait long. Two blinks later, something in Doc snapped and he lost it.

"No!" Doc snarled in a harsh hiss, slowly moving his head back and forth in some semblance of a defiant refusal. He moved in again, this time rearing his arm back above his head in a move that Carlos knew all-too well the last resort.

It was all Carlos could do not to throw up.

With a nauseatingly wild passion, Doc pounded his fist into DK's chest, violently jarring the surrealistic element of the poignant moment. The emanating thud of bone hitting bone was more wretchedly sickening than expected. Carlos found his hands automatically reach steady DK's head between them, but simultaneously his own head hung sagged low and lifelessly, perhaps to shield view of the tears spilling from his eyes. No one had ever seen him cry.

The pounding persisted; one, two, three times. The third time cracked a rib.

"Com'on, dammit!" Doc hissed through gritted teeth.

_Enough._

Carlos' head snapped up, regardless of the tears sloppily dripping down his face, melting his rigid jawbone. This had to stop.

Though it wasn't a conscious act, he exclaimed loudly, somehow seeming as though he was in command of his voice, "Doc, stop!"

* * *

Looking askance through the raging snow, Gusler pointed his flashlight ahead and peered into the windshields of each car he passed, methodically searching for the person responsible for the pointless horn honking. Because of the harsh wind and the near-whiteout conditions, it was hard to identify exactly where the booming echoes of sound were deriving from, so Gusler had resorted to trying to find the obnoxious driver via sight. 

He realized, after a few minutes of futility, that every car contained an equal amount of scowling, frustration and ire, and a pair of eyes that stared crossly back at him as though he were entirely liable for the bothersome delay. He'd never seen such a mob of livid people before, and frankly, it was intimidating and daunting, and made him feel very alone and ganged-up upon.

Though his heart was beating like anything, and his mouth was as dry as the Sahara, he kept walking down the line with his head held high, trying to appear as unperturbed as possible. He was sure he was doing a horrible job of it.

He stopped before a dark-blue Mercedes when the horn became unbearably loud and made his eardrums feel like they would rupture. The driver inside glared out at him, his clenched jaw noiselessly mouthing expletives and curses at Gusler as his hand laid antagonistically on the horn. He looked as pissed as anyone Gusler had ever seen.

_This's it, Steve, you tell him what's what. You're the boss. You're a cop. You're a bad-ass cop. _

Gusler hoped that the driver wouldn't see that his hands were shaky from adrenaline, or that he could barely talk because he was so nervous. He'd never been in any situation without another, more senior cop with him, and the thought of going about this business unaccompanied was utterly daunting to the rookie. Regardless of the record-low temperature, he was very nearly in a cold sweat.

He swallowed hard at his apprehension and rapped his knuckles on the driver's window, signaling the infuriated man to roll the glass down. "Open up," he murmured, his voice breathy. Then louder, after clearing his throat several times and leaning down, "Open up, sir."

_Yeah, you sound _real_ authoritative. Pull yourself together. _

The pane receded into the door, and before Gusler had completely collected himself, he was nose to nose with the horn-honker; the infuriated guy was smirking in a sinister way as if to say, "make me". The man had at least twenty years on him, and being a very respectful young man himself, Gusler almost felt as though he were about to lecture his father. It seemed inappropriate.

_I am so not cut out for this job. _

Gusler could only hope to God that he didn't look as vulnerable as he felt at the moment. But inappropriate feelings or not, it was his job to reprimand the man. Gusler was in authority, however strange it was to suppose.

He forced his large eyes to narrow down into a makeshift scowl, lowered his voice as best he could, and crossed his somewhat-scrawny arms over his unimpressive chest, trying desperately to emulate the way Les Murphy and John Sullivan came off: a hard-nosed, seen-it-all cop who wouldn't take any shit. Period.

"That's enough, sir," he stated, his bark not as threatening as he would have liked. "Stop honking that…" He paused for a brief second, deciding to throw in an expletive for good measure, "…_goddamn_ horn!"

If his mother had heard him right then, he might have been slapped. His choice of words, however uncouth they might have been at home, seemed to have the desired affect, and the man slowly took his hand off the wheel, clearly flaunting his displeasure with the order.

"_Officer_," he spat, drawing-out the word as though he were being sarcastic to give Gusler said title. "This is fucking ridiculous. I've been sitting here for almost a half-hour, and I'm late now, thanks to the _great_ job you're doing clearing this damn mess up." He took an emphatic pause before spitting out the rest of his harangue. "I don't know what the hell we pay you guys for…."

Gusler had prepared himself for the tirade, but hadn't thought far enough ahead to come up with something impervious to say in retort. Seconds ticked by like short eternities, and the man waited with an amused expression on his face as Gusler noticeably scrambled for words.

_You're a bad-ass. You don't give a damn. You tell him off, Steve; you tell him. _

He had a good internal pep-talk going, which was all well and good, but as far as anything to say back, Gusler was drawing a mind-blowing blank. He glanced up, tearing his gaze from the man's as he blinked rapidly, the move a defense-reaction, as he didn't wish the sneering motorist to see through his weak façade and catch sight of his artless susceptibility.

His gaze focused on a movement further down the street, moving away from him, and this time Gusler's eyes narrowed instinctively, not deliberately, as he struggled to remember why the sight ahead abruptly seemed so imperative to him – imperative enough to cause him to completely forget the situation at hand for a second; quite a feat.

He tried to shrug it off. It was only a guy walking down a street, after all. But there was something about the distancing silhouette that sent alarm bells pealing in Gusler's head. What was it?

The innocuous pedestrian was holding something in his arms, snuggled against his green parka, and held whatever it was awkwardly, as though it were heavy or he didn't know how to hold it properly. What was it about the guy?

Then Gusler suddenly remembered the APB and his heart leapt into his throat.

"_Caucasian male, mid-30's, wearing a green jacket, driving a red pickup, suspect in the kidnapping of a four-year-old girl."_

No doubt about it now – the object cuddled against the jacket was the body of a child; Gusler caught a glimpse of blonde ringlets. There was no red pickup truck, but the rest of the stats were correct enough to warrant his full attention and the sickened jolt of nausea in his stomach.

"Just…just knock it off, okay?" he murmured at the driver distractedly, refusing to let his gaze stray from the suspicious figure ahead. "Or I'll, uh…I'll have to ticket you for…uh, disturbing the peace."

"Right. Fine, Officer."

Slapping the top of the Mercedes twice was a movement garnered from watching far too many hours of cop shows as a kid, and was as inadvertent as the panicked look warping his face as he strode away, quickly marching through the snow toward the man ahead as though on autopilot.

One thing rang out in his mind as he hustled, and sent waves of cold chills down his spine:

"…_considered armed and dangerous" _

* * *

Again, Doc's fist was brought down with a braying thud. DK's body jerked harshly with the strong blow, driving the top of his head into Carlos' knee.

"Stop!"

Strangely enough, the situation vaguely reminded Carlos of a game he used to play as a child. Your arm would be twisted back behind you, and then pushed on and wrenched up until you couldn't stand the pain anymore. Tears or begging wouldn't grant you leniency just the word "uncle". Only the other foster kids he'd "played" it with wouldn't stop when he'd screamed for mercy.

Did he need now to scream for mercy?

"Stop…_please_."

He was begging pitifully, eyes lowered in shame, feeling utterly reduced to the child of the past. Defying Doc, he felt his hands were tied, wrenched and twisted behind his back. But he cried protest anyway, like always, even though he knew his pleading would only bring on more pain. "Just…. Stop. St–"

Abruptly, a strident, jagged gasp broke off Carlos in mid-word – the most horrifically beautiful thing he'd ever heard. His reaction nearly mimicked the sound perfectly.

"We got him," Doc said bluntly, his hands immediately busied with checking pupils, adjusting the C-collar and such, but his voice lit with a hint of apologetic concern. Carlos could tell that Doc was well aware that he had breached Carlos' breaking point. Apologetic, yes, but the damage was done.

The young medic was a plethora of emotions; ecstatic over DK, mortified by his weakness and display of the chinks in his armor, and scared of what further gruesomeness the night had to bring.

To prevent any further show of said emotions, he just nodded his head, forcing a grim smile, and swiped at the wetness on his face.

And he was suddenly exhausted.

* * *

"Murphy, this's Gusler. Do you copy?"

He gave in to the urge to whisper, so as to not attract attention to himself as he stalked the alleged kidnapper down the street. His aim was to slink after the perp like a shadow, but he felt like more of a herd of elephants as every crunch of snow and swish of his pants resounded ten-fold.

Cars lined the road bumper-to-bumper; headlights beaming their fog lamps eerily lit the thoroughfare; the snow, hewing crazily at the illuminations, sent eccentric patterns of light dancing everywhere like a perverted discotheque.

The luminosity was all in his peripheral, though, because he refused to take his widened eyes off of the man ahead. He was too utterly petrified to even blink, lest he lose sight of the green jacket in the yawning jaws of the inclement night.

Gusler's pace was quite a bit faster than the perp's, as he was not carrying thirty pounds of innocent child in his arms, and his harried footsteps neatly matched the quickness of his respirations but didn't even begin to come close to the wild raging of his heart rate.

_I'm alone. _

The fact was painfully obvious to Gusler as he went along he was not just alone physically, but without someone to mentally guide him through what would, in all probability, prove to be the most terrifying thing he'd ever done in his life. That factor alone was enough to induce a stupefying, full-fledged nervous breakdown.

Irrespective of the panic welling within him, he just managed to keep himself together. He was of a mind to be amazed at this.

_I can do this. I've got all the right training,_ he thought halfheartedly. But he couldn't convince reality.

Who was he kidding? He had no experience past a textbook, a classroom, and a shooting range. A textbook couldn't back him up or be there for support; the classroom of other recruits would have come in handy, but were sadly nowhere to be found; the training dummies didn't have minds of their own, and were about as three-dimensional and life-like as the paper they were drawn on. Who the hell was he kidding…?

He'd ridden for half-a-day with his training officer – the person who was supposed to educate him on how to handle these types of situations correctly. Tallied together, his experiences and know-how were quite pitiable – hell, even criminals had more skill. He wasn't prepared at all, and the chance of the forthcoming predicament turning out okay was zero to nil.

"Murphy?" he hissed again, crooking his neck so that his mouth touched the mike on his radio; his fingers shook violently as he queued the "talk" button.

No telling if the guy he pursued could hear him or not, but he'd rather be cautious and quiet than yell for help as his instincts screamed for him to do.

All he got in return was a bunch of crackly static that nearly made him lose his dinner all over the snow-covered sidewalk.

_Buck up, you sissy. You're fine. You've got your Glock._

His right hand reached down and unsnapped the holster, releasing the cooled metal of his weapon into his hand. The solidity of the gun made him feel a little better, but not enough to quell the sour queasiness burning monster-sized ulcers into his stomach.

As quietly as possible, he clicked the safety to "off" and pulled back the barrel of the gun to cock it. The slight sounds seemed to ricochet around relentlessly, and he cringed at the sudden influx of noise. Gusler thought for sure that the man must have heard him, as he was now only trailing by about one hundred feet, but the perp remained undeterred – oblivious, it seemed. It was now unmistakably discernible that the perp was limping, heavily favoring his left leg as he shambled onward.

_I need backup! Please, Murphy, where are you! _

Abruptly, the green-jacketed suspect hung a hard right, vanishing into a dark, ill-omened ally. Gusler managed to catch a glimpse of the little girl as he turned; her eyes were closed, her skin waxy and pale, and worst of all, there was clearly a trail of blood streaming from one of her ears.

Unbridled wrath welled up in Gusler's chest so formidably that he nearly forgot about how scared-stiff he was.

_How _dare_ that bastard._

Little did Gusler know, but he apparently had a soft spot for kids, and woe betides anyone who had the nerve to harm a child. The deadly concoction of emotions surging up within him, fear and fury, was as noxious as it was intense, and provoked incensed gasps and a tightening of his chest that rivaled a heart attack.

He reached the corner of the alley and stood stock-still, back flush against the brick wall, his gun drawn and pointing up naturally, looking for all the world like a real, bona fide cop, ready to gun down the bad guy. He was dimly aware that he'd stopped taking in air and was holding his breath indefinitely. Perfunctorily, he brought his flashlight up, slowly crossing his wrists in a common police maneuver, allowing him to shine a shaft of light exactly where his gun pointed.

_It's now or never._

Never was deliciously appealing, but now was unbearably right.

_Now. _

He swung his gangling frame around the corner, sucking in a huge breath of air as he simultaneously clicked on the flashlight. The alleyway was instantly illuminated, revealing the startled form and face of the suspected kidnapper as he turned, gripping his precious bundle in his arms.

Gusler froze for a second, as he had startled himself by instinctually righting the corner, but found enough composure and breath to holler, "Hands up! Police!"

* * *

Though with the initial perception of sound, his heart had leapt with anticipation and hope, after a long time passed with no variance in his plight, he slowly lowered himself back down to his very own hell on earth, where hopefulness lay quiescent and ludicrous to entertain. 

The weight on his chest prevented a quick death, for with the added pressure came the inability to inhale or move even imperceptibly, and the rough dirt that would eventually work its way all the way down his throat was slowed by these factors.

_My luck…,_ he thought wryly. He was slowly losing his grip on existing now woozy and sweating profusely, but half-paralyzed as his body systematically shut itself down.

Drowning. He was somehow drowning in dirt.

The comprehension of the fact was more or less just as ironic to Bosco as it was repulsive. This was no way to go. He was buried alive a death so horrific that it was reserved for heinous horror flicks and serial killers. It wasn't supposed to happen accidentally.

The only thing coming of every momentously long-drawn-out second was that he was one more step closer to the end of his nightmare. And that thought became his hope.

But then the noise ceased to be just that and was suddenly words…talking. People right beside him, so near that he began to make out what was being said.

"Close…keep digging…."

Dirt rained down heavily, drenching his face with a thick layer of sediment, finding its way up his nose, between his teeth, in his ears. Bosco gasped, fighting for air around the clot of earth in his mouth.

"The door…help…."

_Just breathe; they're here. _

He was seeing spots, even though his eyes were squeezed shut, and his lungs were trembling, if that was even possible. It was taking everything he had left in him to remain alive, even for just seconds longer, as every cell in his body was calling quits and punching out concurrently.

_Don't lose it now, you weak bastard; ride it out. _

The immediate disconnection from his body was horrific. Bosco felt himself stiffen and become altogether numb, insensate, almost as though rigor mortis had set in prematurely. His brain seemed the only thing still functioning, feeling not unlike he was, in fact, dead and it hadn't quite registered yet. He was too tired to panic.

And then something hit has face, jarring his head and causing him to cry out in agony. The presence of pain somehow relived him as mush as it hurt him.

"Oh shit! Christ! Someone's alive down here!" a voice boomed from inches away. So close. The voice softened from astounded to markedly concerned. "Buddy? Oh God, hang on, God, just hang on. We'll get you out, just hang on…."

A string of swearing, half-littered with apologies ate up the next few seconds. The person touching his face pulled back, taking a considerable amount of earth out of his tomb, but reappeared immediately, hitting his left cheek.

He could feel the dirt in his mouth threatening to advance its voyage to his lungs, and his eyes were rolling back into his head as he fought to catch even an insignificant amount of air.

Bosco's thoughts became ungainly and confusing to him. Like a psychedelic inebriation, everything in his head seemed to pulse, fade in and out from reality to a state of misconstrued disorder. Every few beats he was back in the here and now enough to prompt himself to gasp for a breath.

_Don't lose it now. _

* * *

Somehow, though he knew his hasty plan was pretty unreasonable, Jack Spence would give the only option left a try. He was inherently like that – impulsive, or crazy, as his father always teased after hearing the latest stunt his youngest son had pulled. Nevertheless, his father's pride was always unmistakable, and Jack lived from each proud nod of approval to the next. 

Jack knew this stunt would probably go down as one of his more harebrained ones. Actually, it was pretty much idiotic to think that it would actually work, but idiotic would have to do for now.

For him, there was never a question of half-assing or compromising. Everything was all or nothing. Go big or go home.

Because his facemask was failing miserably, he was pawing around inside the car and keeping his eyes squeezed shut in objection to the stinging smoke and gasses. After fumbling for a moment, he grabbed the baby under its tiny arms, attempting to pull the little guy from the insensate firefighter's grasp. However, as he gently tugged, the trapped firefighter instinctively held tighter – protectively.

_Oh God._

For a second, Jack was only aware of the shallow breaths he was gasping in.

It was tragically touching, this last-ditch effort from the dying man. And it pained him terribly, all but breaking his heart. The tough, audacious firefighter, who'd been deemed "The Machine" by his comrades, had a heart under all of his bravado, go figure.

"Lemme help you, man! Lemme take him!" he yelled as loudly as humanly possible. Hopefully, his desperate bellow was heard over the roaring fire. Immediately, a copper taste seeped into his mouth as his lips split, cracked, and bled from the brutal, drying heat. "Please!"

Again he tugged, much harder, and the little guy slipped into his arms. Jack nearly dropped the baby, who was limp, floppy, and a spaghetti noodle of arms and legs, but he succeed in making use of his hands, which were frequently all thumbs, and pulled the infant to his chest.

The firefighter inside groaned wretchedly in protest, and his hands moved slightly and sluggishly, as though searching for the precious bundle he'd worked so hard to save.

Jack wished like never before that he was a machine. The unexpected emotional add-on was breaking his concentration and readily liquefying his hardheadedness.

_Just do this thing. You can cry about it later. _

Cradling the baby in his left arm, he used his right hand to rip at the Velcro fastenings on his heavy coat, stripping it open halfway. The immediate heat hit his chest like…well...fire. And it snatched his breath momentarily.

_Christ! It has to be two thousand degrees out here!_

He grabbed at his FDNY T-shirt collar and jerked it out as far as it would stretch, then took the baby and slid him down inside his coat, inside his shirt, until the kid was safely between his wife-beater and tee.

He felt badly, putting the poor baby there, up against his sweaty undershirt, but it was the only way. Idiotic, maybe – probably –, but it would have to do.

The second component of his plan was much more difficult and easier thought than done. He leaned in, pressing his chest against the sideboard of the car, making sure that the child snuggled against his stomach wasn't smashed at all, then went after the firefighter with almost a manic determination.

_One arm, two; grab under his armpits. Okay, got him. Heave. _

Heave he did, but the broad-shouldered firefighter was heavy – maybe too heavy – and he struggled weakly, moaning and batting at Jack's hands, but his vague movements were enough to make his rescuer exert himself all the more to free him.

However, Jack was impetuous and only driven to his limit by hindrance or obstacles. He readjusted his hold into a death-grip and began to yank backward in small, but vigorous, spurts, grunting as his efforts slowly unfolded.

Head first and belly up, his back scraping against the window frame, the firefighter emerged inch-by-painstaking-inch, and two agonizingly exhausting minutes later, Jack had managed to get the fading firefighter out about halfway. That's when he caught his first good look at his vic.

The man looked terrible, and had he not been gasping for adequate breath, Jack would have sworn up down that he was dead. He also noticed distractedly the name detailed on the man's NYPD standard-issue coat: Doherty.

Although his willpower, as a general rule, was quite a force to be reckoned with, Jack was rapidly losing his strength with every shudder of strained muscle and tear of sweat crying down his face and body. He was drenched and drained and beginning to feel beleaguered.

"I need your help, man."

It was a fraught plea, directed at the only two in earshot: Doherty and God. He didn't exactly know which one he was begging more, but he'd gladly take a little help from both.

Ignoring the trembling of his arms, and the tightness of his chest, and the way he himself had began to gasp, Jack leaned back, using his weight as leverage. And it worked, much to his delight. By degrees, Doherty seeped out of the imprisoning hellhole, albeit Jack felt as though he were trying to pull the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle.

He stopped tugging when the whole of Doherty's torso had cleared the threshold, and then straightened back up into a stand.

Reeling, Jack sensed vertigo spiraling wickedly at the fringe of his stability. He didn't need to look at his gauges to know that his oxygen tank was near-empty – all the more reason to get the hell out of Dodge, as far as he was concerned.

He wasted no time. Sucking in as huge a breath he could muster, he slid his hands down until he was supporting Doherty by the wrists, then squatted and hunched over as he twisted his arms over his head, tugged and slid Doherty over his right shoulder, belly down. The instant weight felt ten times heavier in the heat of the moment, and he was sure that the fact that Doherty was limp had something to do with it.

By means of a superhuman gathering of what little strength he had left, aided by the appreciated stimulus of adrenaline, Jack managed to slowly rise and get to his feet again, much to his own surprise.

He stepped forward unflinchingly, the picture of curiosity. What with a full-grown-man draped over a shoulder and a baby creating a bulge at his stomach, he looked more like a vaudeville act then a successful rescue. But good God, he'd done it!

And he suddenly felt like the world's luckiest idiot.

* * *

"He's okay? He's okay?" 

Bobby sounded as disbelieving as he felt. He was rather a "doubting Thomas" – he literally had to see it to believe it. He waited a long moment, watching Doc and Carlos switch seamlessly from a disheartened doggedness, pounding compulsively for a heartbeat, to a flurry of excited energy.

"We need a medic down here, now!" someone called from somewhere off to his right. Bobby turned his head, indicating his heed, but his gaze didn't budge, holding on hope that the activity was indeed what he thought it was. It looked to be, but he had to make sure.

"Paramedic! We need you, man! It's bad."

"Go! We got him, Bobby. We got him back…." Doc waved him off fervidly; the relief on Doc's face spoke more plainly to Bobby than words. The senior paramedic stooped back down, continuing to fuss with DK before reaching behind him for the backboard. The backboard was a good sign – good enough to satisfy his need of reassurance.

"Yeah," he breathed, but even though he said it, he had no idea to whom it was directed. Lost in the wind, he supposed, with every last shred of normalcy and sanity and decency and hope that seemed to have blown completely away into the nighttime obscurity. All optimism that usually gave second-wind precedence over exhaustion was gone, too, and replaced by doubt, dread, and urges to compromise. It was unfamiliar to run like this – on empty – but Bobby wasn't the sort to give in when things got rough, or in the circumstance, grueling. He would run on fumes.

Shouldering his bags, he promptly hopped/slid over the hood of the sedan that had just recently served as the means to keep him upright. Recently felt like hours ago.

Making his way proved to be as easy as everything else the damned night had spewed. The ground was literally a montage of dangerous metal and glass, and that was assuming one could even see the ground – most of it was covered in bony carcasses of vehicles. For all intents and purposes, the highway was now just a graveyard – an impromptu necropolis. Disgusting.

"Whatd'ya got?" he called out monotonically. He was close enough now, maybe ten feet away, but kept his eyes downward, so as to avoid inadvertently stepping on the sharp metal littering around. The fragments were like teeth, jagged and waiting for a bite.

When he didn't get an immediate response, Bobby stopped walking and looked up. He was instantly mystified. Could have been the fact that he was riding an emotional rollercoaster with no end in sight, but he was pretty sure that the spectacle before him was just plain confusing.

The officer who'd summoned him over was covered in mud, as were two others near him. He recognized one of the men as John Sullivan. They all appeared to be working unflinchingly to unearth something from the bowels of the giant mass of spilled dirt.

"What is it?" Bobby asked bewilderedly, hitching the meds bag up further onto his shoulder. He took a few more tentative steps forward, but stopped when he felt as though he were getting in the way.

"It's a squad," offered the nearest officer rather bluntly.

Bobby's mind, on sensory-overload, made a great effort to process the hasty relay, and though he continued to progress forward, he knew it was apparent he was struggling.

"RMP. Couple a' cops," the officer was kind enough to softly reiterate himself. He stepped back to let Bobby closer, eyeing the paramedic with more than a hint of trepidation.

It was then that Bobby felt the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through his veins. His cheeks flushed as his face rapidly became a question mark of incredulity.

"Wha –? " he breathed as he stepped to the rear, so taken aback he was not capable of finishing off even the one-word question. And as he absorbed the information, his brain caught up with his over-worked eyes. It was all so clear now: the franticness, the digging, the dirtied white piece of plastic a bumper. The dump truck hadn't gone down alone. It hadn't gone down alone and there might be someone still alive, entombed.

He literally shuddered at the mere thought of being buried alive.

As he stood there still in shock, Bobby was instantly conscious of the tension in the air, heavy and agitated everyone around riding the fine line between sanity and desperation.

"Just help us!" Sully half-barked, half-pleaded over his shoulder. The senior officer was up to his elbows in wet dirt, uncovering the sideboard of the obscured vehicle with the vigorousness of someone half his age. The other cop, beside Sullivan, was taller and leaner, and laboring just as hard to remove earth as fast as humanly possible.

"We're real close, real close. Com'on, keep digging," encouraged the tall officer as he worked, his patter obviously nervous, but unusually soothing.

"I got the door, the frame. Help me…the dirt's cavin' back in on itself."

A surprised yelp broke the still, and the proceeding words ran up Bobby's spine like a shock of electricity. "Oh shit! Christ! Someone's alive down here!"

He was on his hands and knees in an instant, dropping his bags alongside him, fumbling with the Velcro straps. His distress was painfully evident to himself, and he fought off the urge to succumb to his terribly compassionate side and throw up.

_Take a breath, snap out of it; someone needs you now much more than you need yourself. _

Like wiping a slate clean, all dismal thoughts and shock abated in one fell swoop as he declined into the familiarized zone of self-confidence and unaffectedness. His head was clear, his hands were ready. His eyes flitted over the paraphernalia housed neatly in the red bags.

_C-collar, Ambu-bag, saline._

"Buddy? Oh God, hang on, God, just hang on. We'll get you out, just hang on…."

_Morphine, Lidocane, Epinephrine, AED defibrillator, laryngoscope._

"Shit! Fuck! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…. Shit! Oh dear God…. I'm sorry."

Bobby grabbed his stethoscope with both hands and flipped it around his neck. It was reminiscent of a highly choreographed dance, his maneuvers of preparation, and he was fluent with every step. But his hands were shaking like a first-day rookie's.

"Got a shoulder…an' a badge. 3379."

Bobby's head immediately snapped around to have a look. Sully seemed to have paused for a moment; his face was slack. "Bosco," the older officer managed in a weak voice.

The tall cop was shaking his head as he heaved another mass of mud behind him. "This fucking dirt."

"Lemme get in there, guys," Bobby said insistently, very nearly on the verge of pushing the fumbling police officers aside. There was only so much time that they had.…

"Yeah, you get down here. He's alive, I think." The tall officer prattled nervously as he slunk back a few feet and motioned for Bobby to replace him. "Let him in, guys. Move around we gotta get the other…side out." The hesitant pause breaking his string of words did not go unnoticed.

The looks on the faces of the men reciprocated what Bobby was thinking: They were lucky enough to have found Bosco alive. The chance of a parallel stoke of luck was all but implausible. And they all knew it.

However, the tenacious workforce of New York had seen both ends of the spectrum, the expected and the miraculous, and they were impervious to the easy tug of discouragement. Contradicting themselves on every level, they were thick-skinned but big hearted, indefatigable but emotionally vulnerable, proud and strong but the most humble of humble. They fought the good fight and never gave up, no matter how dreadful, vile, or sickening the outcome may be.

The men all scrambled to get out of his way, moving in a large arc around him to resume their digging on the adjacent side of the vehicle.

"Good God," Bobby murmured as he walked on his knees toward the uncovered doorframe. The rip-stop nylon of meds bag dragged through the dirt behind him, hissing in protest.

Though the police had done a good job at removing as much of the dirt as possible, half of the driver's side door remained obscured. A hole about two feet square was the opening he'd have to work with. And it was better that way. Things could shift if jostled too much, and it was vital from a medical standpoint to let a paramedic take a look at the victim before continuing with rescue efforts.

Though he was already on his knees, he bent down further, ducking his tall form as close to the fallen officer as possible. The hole made by desperate hands cupped around him, but to get close enough he needed to be much more prone. Looking as uncoordinated as he felt, he flopped down on his belly before crawling – or rather inching – forward commando-style until his right shoulder met and pressed against the doorframe. He twisted about, reaching his hand into the mangled metal frame, then trying valiantly to force his body to follow. He got just as far as needed.

His ungloved fingers, though nearly anesthetized from the cold, found the soft of flesh, the rough of a stubbled cheek.

"Bosco? Is that you, buddy?" he called as he squirmed in closer, his torso wriggling about like a floundering fish.

When he got nothing in response, his heart dropped and his chest ached nervously. He tried again, louder and more urgently. "Bosco? Can you hear me? Talk to me, buddy."

The skin under his fingers moved slightly, and a soft moan erupted from within the abysmal hole.

"Sweet Jesus," Bobby breathed, nothing short of astonishment lacing his voice. "He _is _superman…."

_

* * *

Three…four…five…six…. _

Though the rest of his body seemed to have fully arrested, his dry lips wordlessly counted the seconds out one by one, as though latching onto the normalcy of time would make the situation not seem so perfectly surreal.

…_seven…eight…._

The age-old myth of time warping into slow-motion was instantaneously dispelled for Gusler. Time moved much too fast for him, and it flew by unforgiving, second-by-vital-second.

The kidnapper was facing him, but now his hand possessed the shiny glint of deadly metal that no cop ever wanted to see. The textbook in Gusler was quick on the uptake and immediately identified the gun as a .44 Magnum. A .44 meant some big-ass bullets – the rookie had seen pictures of the damage that could be done with just one slug.

_Bang, you're dead._

Gusler grimaced slightly, but his Glock never wavered. He was absolutely shocked that, in his petrified state and the immoderate adrenaline racing through him, he hadn't passed out or had a panic-induced breakdown of sorts. He was as dizzy as he was scared, but though vertigo pulled relentlessly at his nerves, he somehow remained steady.

"D-Drop the gun! P-put your hands on y-your head!" The stutter and insecurity in his voice instigated a pleased smirk to pull up the corners of the perp's mouth.

"You learn that line from a movie, boy?" the man snarled spitefully, very nearly correct in his conjecture. His own gun never faltered even the slightest bit, and it ogled Gusler with one round, steely eye.

_Bang, right between the eyes. _

Gusler took a long moment, swallowing back the bittersweet taste in his mouth, blinking at the fearful tears distorting his vision, and drawing a deep breath of icy air.

The facts of the night were as striking as the slim metal barrel leveled at his face – he needed help, backup, someone. The impasse created by another gun had nixed the original idea of a swift deposing of the suspect. This would be no easy takedown – Gusler's adversary was quick, armed, and smug; he was an inexperienced, scared out of his wits, trembling rookie. A recipe for disaster.

"You put your gun down or the kid eats a bullet. Then you. And I don't say nothin' I don't intend to do, _pig_. Got it?" the kidnapper snapped, and then squeezed the little girl until she squealed weakly.

The helpless noise was enough to send Gusler over the edge of reason.

Acting on a whim, and more than a bit audaciously, Gusler dropped his flashlight, letting it fall easily to the snowy floor with a muted thud. The light still managed to illuminate the ally enough to see, and freed his hand. He promptly cocked his head to the left and grabbed at his radio, screaming for help, his voice catching and cracking dreadfully, "10-13, King and 5th! 10-13!"

The call was out, thank God, but his impulsive movement angered the kidnapper. A furious growl snapped out and echoed madly off of the surrounding walls. Straight away the man fired a shot in his direction.

Before his eardrums protested the piercing crack of gunpowder, the world lit-up a brilliant white. Thankfully, reflexes hadn't completely escaped him in his petrified state, and Gusler fell easily to his knees in a knee-jerk reaction to escape the ill-intended slug.

A whooshing hum scorched past his ear, and left a searing tail of raw ire behind. Instinctively, his free hand flew up, grabbing at his burning cheek as he rocked back and forth, hissing in pain through gritted teeth. There was fluid earnestly seeping through his trembling fingers, lukewarm and sadistically wet.

He'd been hit.

* * *

TBC... ._Any and all thoughts are very much appreciated. I love hearing from you all!_


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